


Chains

by Ahsim



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, Body Dysphoria, Dubious Consent, LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, Multi, Rape, Swearing, Transgender Issues, Violence, exploitation fic, mentions of child abuse, non consensual acts, this is not a happy fic for most of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-10-30 20:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 118,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10884354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahsim/pseuds/Ahsim
Summary: Trowa Barton has a secret--one he has kept his entire life. A single operation brings it all to light.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long overdue rewrite of The Chains We Wear (also available on AO3). Further notes will be included at the end. Additional tags will be added at the beginning of chapters as additional warnings become necessary.

The bed was in total disarray: sheets bunched up at the footboard, pillows knocked haphazardly for the edge.  The body in the middle of the tousled mattress splayed and then curled, rolling onto his side and gripping the sheets in a sleep’s death grip.  Brow furrowed, panting softly, he kicked slightly and then shivered.  He licked his lips in his sleep, catching a bead of cold sweat on his tongue.  He gagged and whimpered, body curling tighter on itself.  How long?  How much longer?  How much more until—           

“Yo,” Duo called just over a sharp rap on the door, “breakfast!”           

Trowa opened his eyes and, for a moment, saw canvas.  His throat tightened until his darting eyes caught a sliver of sunlight coming through the bedroom’s blinds.  Trowa squinted then followed a speck of dust as it floated across and up to the familiar ceiling.  He laid there, heart pounding as he tried to remember and hold onto the familiarity of the room.  Walls and paint, ceiling and light.  Bedroom.  Not a tent.  Bedroom.           

“Oh for goodness sakes, Duo,” Quatre snapped in the hall.  “That’s not what I meant.”           

“But it works.”           

“Shoo.”  Trowa heard a familiar scuffling noise as Duo dodged-skipped Quatre swatting at him.  Trowa felt his throat start to loosen at the routine morning noise.           

Quatre knocked gently on his bedroom door.  “Trowa, you up?”  The rest of the fog lifted.  Trowa let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes as he sat up in bed.  He frowned at the mess he had made before glancing at the door.           

“Yeah, I’m up.  Be there in a minute.”           

“No rush,” Quatre said, and Trowa could hear the gentle smile in his voice.  “Still got about ten minutes.  Take your time.  Just not too much.”           

“I won’t.”           

Trowa waited for a moment, until he could no longer hear the quiet padding of Quatre’s socked-feet on the carpet, before bending forward.  He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, waiting for the headache and the shaking to stop.  He marveled, for a moment as he waited, how considerate Quatre was.  In all things.  Deceptively considerate sometimes.  Quatre always seemed gentle, even to those that knew him longest.  His walk and gesture were quiet and slow, unassuming and mindful.  He never wanted to impose himself on others, disturb or distract others from their business.  It was an effective strategy for his line of work.  What better way to find an enemy’s weakness than to seem too gentle and demure, too “weak,” to even be a blip on their radar?           

And Quatre made sure he was even less than a blip.  It made him a powerful ally for them, and a damn powerful foe to others.           

Headache finally subsiding, Trowa ran his hands down his face before sliding across the mattress and getting up.  He was thankful, and not for the first time, that the room was carpeted.  Most of the bedrooms were.  The trailer never had been, and Trowa had always had to sleep with socks because he hated waking up to a cold floor; he liked sleeping with socks only slightly more.  Trowa flexed his toes in the thick material before getting ready.           

Trowa sighed as he picked up the pillows, tugged the sheets back up onto the mattress, and uncrumpled the blankets at the end of the bed.  He made the bed with careful but quick movements, frowning slightly.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had an actual good night sleep, but last night had been particularly destructive.  Of course, Trowa remembered most of dreams.  Last night’s had been especially, especially unpleasant.  He snorted as he folded the blanket over.   _Understatement of the day._            

Straightening, then bending backward to let his back pop, Trowa turned and headed towards the short dresser along the wall.  He didn’t actually need the thing, of course.  Trowa barely had enough clothes to fill his closet.  But the dresser had its uses.  He tugged open the top drawer and rummaged around in his undershirts, socks, and spare pillowcases.  The longer he dug the more he frowned.  He could have sworn he had put it in there last night.  Trowa was meticulous when it came to it, and especially where he put it.  He had been tired last night though.

Trowa felt the panic spike when he couldn’t find it.           

He tugged open the next drawer and rooted faster.   _Where is it?  It has to be in here.  It has to._  He had to have put it in one of the drawers.  Or else.  Or else, he had left it out.  Out there.  Where any one of them could find it.  Or had found it.  Trowa shuddered, not even wanting to think about it.  What would happen if they found out, that would be make his dreams seem pleasant.            

His fingers finally brushed against the stiffer fabric.  He let out a sigh.  Two drawers down from usual.  He must of mixed them up last night because he had been so tired.  He’d have to be more careful.  Trowa tugged it out and tucked it under his arm as he kicked the drawer closed.  He turned towards the closet, and, as he did, caught a glance of himself in the mirror.  Trowa frowned.  He had tried.  He had tried so hard to convince them that he really didn’t need the mirror.  That there was already one in the bathroom—which he tried not to use—and that a second one in the bathroom was just sort of redundant.  Trowa had tried, but they had all been quite insistent.  Any more resistance would have been suspicious, so Trowa had grin and borne it as Heero and Duo measured and hung the damn thing.           

Trowa hated his reflection.  It was a daily reminder that he didn’t need.  Unfortunately, he hadn’t found a cloth quite big enough to cover the whole thing.  Or a good enough excuse for breaking it.           

Shoving the reflection and loathing to the furthest part of his attention, Trowa turned and headed to the closet.  He yanked it open, stared at the shaking wood of the door, and sighed.  They would notice if him came out to breakfast that annoyed.  Trowa closed his eyes and breathed until he could fix his face back into its usual lineless, neutral expression.  Then, and only then, did he pull out his uniform.  Trowa carried it to the bed and laid it out, brushing a stray hair or thread from the fabric.  It still seemed strange to him, the uniform, although he had been wearing it most days now for a few months.  But it was a mark of change, and Trowa was still trying to believe that change was a good thing.  With the war over and Gundams no longer necessary, he needed something to do with his life.   _ But there’s not much that my skillset lends itself too. _ __

He supposed he should be lucky to even have the job, but they had all ended up there, in one way or another.  Une had seen to that.  And it was nice, to work with them all.  Even if Trowa hadn’t actually gotten to enjoying the work itself yet.

In a few short minutes, Trowa was mostly dressed and buttoning up the last few buttons of his uniform shirt.  His breath came out in a soft pant, fingers shaking some as he forced the last button through its button.  Smoothing the shirt out, Trowa shifted in his clothes, taking slow breaths from the diaphragm to fill his lungs as he adjusted.  Finally, when his breath evened out, Trowa shifted his shoulders back, wincing just a little.  Trowa turned and looked at himself in the mirror again.  Mostly normally looking now, minus his hair.  Almost presentable.  Almost acceptable.   _Almost. But never actually._ Sighing, Trowa picked up his brush.  He smoothed out his tousled hair, shifting and styling the asymmetrical fall of his hair into its usual softly-curled bang.  It was a bother to maintain some days, especially when he hadn’t slept all that well—and washing the hair goop out was always frustrating—but Trowa preferred it.  There was a peace of mind that came with the auburn shield.  He liked the natural mask.  He liked to hide behind it.           

And keeping it, keeping his secrets, made any irritation bearable.           

With one last look, and a last run through of his bang with his fingers to catch any last tangles, Trowa headed out of his room.  He squinted some as he shut the door behind him with a quiet click.  The house was bright, even here in the short hall, what with the curtains in the living room and the connected dining/kitchen thrown open.  Trowa pursed his lips.  He never quite understood the need for this much light this early but he didn’t complain.  It was their house; they had gotten together, the three of them, and had established patterns and routines long before Trowa had moved in.  They had invited him in, helped him secure a job with the Preventers.  It wasn’t his place to complain.           

Still.  Something seemed to separate them.  Quatre had said, when he offered the bedroom to Trowa the first time, that it was only right.  “We’re still friends,” he had said.  “The war might have brought us together, but we shouldn’t let peace keep us apart.  You belong with us, if you want to stay here.”  They belonged together, but in the months that Trowa had lived with them, he still didn’t feel quite like he belonged.  He didn’t feel like he had managed to get to that real “friendship” feeling.           

Of course, he wasn’t exactly helping matters.           

“Good morning,” Quatre said, smiling as usual as he set out of the last of the breakfast dishes.  It was still surprising how Quatre could be so cheerful and energetic after getting up an hour earlier than everyone, and probably having gone to bed an hour later.  Trowa tried to return the smile, but he could feel how strained the expression was.  Quatre, thankfully, didn’t notice.  At least he didn’t comment and instead handed Trowa a morning cup of tea.           

“Need any help,” Trowa asked.

“Nope, pretty much done.”  Nodding, Trowa sat down in his usual space.  Quatre had headed back to the kitchen just as he did, so he missed the brief grinding of Trowa’s teeth as the movement pressed a little air out of his lungs.           

By the time Heero and Duo came in, both in perfectly pressed Preventer uniforms, Trowa was breathing fine and sipping the warm tea.           

“Just in time,” Quatre said, cutting through whatever Duo had been blathering about mid-sentence.  “Breakfast is pretty much ready.”           

“Excellent, I am starving,” Duo said.  Heero smiled, a small uplift at the corner of his mouth, before following Quatre into the kitchen.  He took the plates Quatre had been about to carry and brought them over to the table himself.  He paused as he set them down.  Trowa blinked slowly at the usual piercing blue gaze.  Heero gave it to him nearly every morning.  Checking.  Cataloguing.  Processing.  There were some things that were never going to change, and Heero’s need to notice and understand everything was one of them.           

Finally satisfied with his brief but intense inspection, Heero nodded.  “Sleep well, Trowa,” he asked as he straightened.           

“Well enough,” Trowa answer, setting the tea down.  Heero smiled a little more.           

“Seemed better than fine,” Duo teased as he tried, like every morning, to dislocate Trowa’s shoulder with the best slap on the back he could.  Trowa grunted slightly, holding back a pained gasp.  “Took you forever to answer.  What the hell were you dreaming about that couldn’t hear me calling?”           

“For almost five minutes,” Heero muttered.           

“It was, like, three tops.”           

“217 seconds which equals—”

“I don’t dream,” Trowa said simply to cut off the impending bicker.           

“Everyone dreams,” Duo said.           

“You sure about that?”           

“Come on, what were you dreaming about?  I won’t laugh, promise.”           

“Duo,” Trowa warned.           

“Please?”           

“Okay, that’s enough,” Quatre sighed.  “Breakfast before we’re all late for work.”           

“Yes, because the last thing some of us needs is another tardy on our record,” Heero said as he set down the last plate.           

“I was not tardy,” Duo pouted. “Une’s clock is fast.”

“Eat.”           

Duo sighed playfully before walking around the table and sitting in his usual seat.  Heero sat down across from him and Quatre sat down across from Trowa right after he had set the daily pot of coffee down in the center of the table.  Heero got to it before anyone else, although he poured coffee for Quatre and Duo first.  As usual, Heero gestured towards Trowa with the half-empty pot.  Trowa shook his head and sipped his tea, which Heero took as a sign to fill his own mug.  Trowa rarely ever had coffee, but the respectful decline was part of the routine.           

As usual, breakfast was a quiet affair.  They never really had time to talk, like they did at dinner, so there was nothing but the quiet chink of silverware on dish and the occasional sip of coffee or tea.  Trowa had never minded the quiet; he didn’t really participate much in their dinner conversations, and the sound of chewing didn’t bother him like it did Duo.  Today, though, something seemed different.  As Trowa glanced at the other three over his mug or his fork, he had the impression that they were…tense, today.  Tenser than usual.  As though he made them uncomfortable somehow.  As though they were somehow sickened by his presence, his existence—           

Which was ridiculous.  They had no idea.  It was just his imagination, keyed up from the nightmare and therefor playing games with him.  They weren’t in the least way uncomfortable around him.  There was no way they could possibly know anything, know at all.  They couldn’t.           

Except they could.

Trowa bit down on his fork a little harder than he meant to, sending a momentary pain down his jaw.  He shook his head minutely before helping himself to the breakfast salad Heero always insisted on.  Across from him, Heero and Quatre were starting to talk.  Trowa tried to lose himself in it.           

“Before I forget,” Heero said as he set down his coffee.  “Did you happen to get any of that information?  Une’s been in my office every day, asking after it.”           

Quatre swallowed a mouthful of pancake before shaking his head.  “Not yet, sorry.  I swear, I thought I’d be able to get it by now, but getting him by himself has been hard.  He’s gotten much more paranoid in the last few weeks.  It took me months to get this close, I don’t want to push too fast.”           

Heero nodded.  “Don’t rush anything.  We don’t need it to move forward, and I don’t want you getting caught in anything.  If he starts resisting or getting suspicious, just back off and leave it.  You’re not jeopardizing your position for something as silly as money laundering—”           

“Oh stop worrying, Heero,” Quatre said.  “I can get it from him, and without losing any ground.  I just need to be a little more creative with my finessing.  And a little more time.  Besides, it’s not silly, you need as many informants as you can get, in as many places.           

“It’s illegal, Quatre, not to mention dangerous.”           

He shrugged.  “It is, but they all do it.  Even the ‘nice’ ones, like me.  Digging up dirt on the competition is as standard place as lying about your funding sources.  At least I’m funneling it to the right authorities and not selling it to cyber markets.”           

“Well, just make sure no one is digging up the dirt on you.  They might know you were a pilot but there’s still stuff from the war that I don’t want dredge up on you.  And don’t go deep, get out when you need to.  This stuff isn’t worth it.”           

“But it sure as hell helps,” Duo cut in.  Quatre smiled a little as Heero glared at Duo.  He reached over and pat Heero’s hand.

“I’ll be careful, I promise.  You know I always am.  But I know I can get it, just need to play a little longer.”

Heero frowned and then sighed, nodding.  “Don’t underestimate the snake.”           

“Seriously.  Une will have our heads if you get found out, or arrested, or—”           

Duo didn’t have a chance to explore whatever else Une would have their heads for.  Trowa cut into the conversation with clattering silverware and quiet gagging.  He choked down the bit of food still in his mouth with difficult, gag reflex working overtime as he tasted the foreign but disgustingly familiar food that had been buried in the salad.  Once he managed to get it, and a touch of bile, down, Trowa drained the rest of his tea.  The taste still lingered.  Shuddering, Trowa lowered his empty tea cup.  Somehow, he managed not to meet Duo and Quatre’s startled looks, or Heero’s suspicious one, as he dug around in his salad with his fork.           

Just as he thought, or rather tasted.  Bacon in the salad.  Trowa grimaced.           

“You alright over there,” Duo asked finally.           

Trowa jolted slightly but hid it in a nod.  “Fine, just breakfast down the wrong throat.”           

“You sure,” Quatre asked, not looking at all convinced.  Trowa managed a mild smile.           

“Yeah, sorry about that.  I’m okay.”           

The smile seemed to do the trick.  Quatre’s face relaxed into its usual pleasant look.  “There’s still some tea left, if you want to top off.”           

“No, I’m okay.  Thank you.”  Trowa helped himself to the last two pancakes to help him get rid of the rest of the flavor.  Matter over, Quatre, Duo, and Heero continued their previous conversations, although Trowa noticed Heero glanced at him more than once.           

Of course, if Trowa could stop himself from sawing into his pancakes, Heero probably wouldn’t be quite as compelled to look.           

Trowa couldn’t believe his idiocy.  He should have remembered that sometimes they liked a bit of protein, or at the very least texture, in their salads.  Trowa was better at paying attention to it, but clearly the lack of sleep was affecting him worse than he thought.  He couldn’t believe he had eaten the damn thing.  Actually swallowed it.  Only his table manners, and the awkward questions of spitting it out, had kept it in his mouth.   Trowa ground his teeth against the fork in his mouth.  The vegetarianism was something that Trowa took seriously, and was by no means a recent decision.  Trowa had never much cared for meat, although there had been plenty of times—especially when he was young and with the mercenaries—when he had no other choices.  The taste, though, had always been awful.  There was just something about eating what had once been alive that bothered Trowa.  Something about taking a breathing, moving creature, slaughtering it and dressing it and presenting it on a plate that just sickened Trowa.  He didn’t mind (now anyway) that people ate meat.  He didn’t mind that they enjoyed it in front of him.  He just had to stop himself from thinking about it too deeply because otherwise the fact that they were physically enjoying death just got a little too much.           

It was odd, though.  Trowa realized that.  He had been a mercenary, and then a Gundam pilot.  It wasn’t that he hadn’t experienced death, and it wasn’t that he hadn’t, a time or two, enjoyed death.  There was a real adrenaline rush that came with blood and combat.  But Trowa never ate the men he killed.  Most of the time, he didn’t even know their names.  That seemed to be the hinge of the matter.  Killing was one thing.  Eating the kill was quite another, and that was the line he wouldn’t cross.           

Except he had.  Barely two minutes ago.           

He wasn’t going to mention it, though.  It wasn’t as if they didn’t already know, and it was, when Trowa really stopped to think about it, a minor transgression.  He should have been paying more attention.  They were already extremely accommodating of him.  Bringing it up would just be silly and petty.  Silly and petty were the last things Trowa wanted to be.           

Besides, “silly and petty” could very quickly turn into irritating and unbearable.  Trowa didn’t want to give them any reason to ask him to go.  

“Oh I better go,” Quatre said as he glanced at the clock.  He got another sip of his coffee before getting up.  “I might be able to catch him in his office before the secretary shows up”

“Have a good day,” Duo called.  “Play nicely with the other kids, and don’t make too many old farts run home crying to their mistresses.”           

“You’re so cute, Duo, really.”  Quatre paused as he threw his overcoat on over his suit.  “Could you guys take care of the table?  Please?”           

“No worries, me and Trowa got this, right,” Duo said.  Trowa swallowed the last of his pancake before nodding.  “See?  No hurry up before you’re late for being a productive member of society.”           

“I’m going, I’m going.  I’ll see you guys tonight, hopefully,” Quatre said.  The tone in his voice let them know that it probably wasn’t going to happen.  Still Quatre smiled as he buttoned the last button, grabbed his briefcase, and hurried out the door with a last wave good-bye.           

Duo waited until Quatre’s car had pulled out of the gravel driveway and was heading down the street.  “He fucking hates it.”           

“Not this morning, Duo,” Heero sighed.  He started helping Trowa gather empty dishes and mugs.           

“Come on, it’s obvious.  This job is killing him.”           

“He hasn’t said so,” Heero said.  He left the first load in the sink.  Trowa put in the second load and then started filling the sink with warm water.           

“He doesn’t have to say it, it’s written all over him.”           

“It’s not our business until he tells us it is.”           

“Not our business,” Duo snorted.  “The hell it isn’t.  He’d be so much happier doing something he knows.”

“I assumed that he knew politics,” Trowa said as he washed dishes.  “He is surprisingly good at it.”           

Duo huffed.  “He knows Gundams better, and war, and tracking down dick bags with a lot less red tape.  Don’t you think he’d be happier with us at Preventer?”           

“Quatre knows politics, and he knows them just as well as Sandrock,” Heero said shortly.  “Better, actually, considering how quickly he’s risen.”           

“Relena certainly helped,” Duo muttered.           

Trowa didn’t think that was particularly fair.  Relena was admittedly a rising star in the political world, bolstered by her personality, her history in the war, and her dedication to realistic peace, but Quatre was a political genius in his own right.  He had wisely chosen to stay out of the direct spotlight, but he had aligned himself with Relena’s office and had risen quickly through the ranks.  There were, of course, still rumors about his social status as the main propellant; Quatre was still technically a prince, and he was still the heir to the massive Winner Corporation. Those accusations though were groundless.  It was Quatre’s intelligence and cunning that got him where he was.  He had, after all, been a Gundam pilot, a soldier, a terrorist, and a master strategist.  Politics were not that much different from war, either.  The skills had transferred over rather easily.           

Still, Trowa had to admit that Duo might have a point.  It was hard to tell if Quatre actually liked the work.  Quatre was in an office where, apart from Relena, most of the senior staff were men three times his age.  He sat on a council with them as they advised Relena, and it must have chaffed for them when she listened to his suggestions over their more “experienced” ones.  Quatre was also doing paperwork, running meetings, managing phone conferences, and just trying to explain to these people concepts that they had never actually experienced.  They had never known war.  They had never worked for peace through the battlefield.  There were certainly days where Quatre came home frustrated by that fact, the fact that they could never understand because they just didn’t have the experience.           

Did Quatre miss it?  Did he miss being hands on when it came to securing peace, even if it meant getting them dirtier than perhaps he liked?  Did he miss doing something other than snooping on politicians’ private lives and funneling information to the Preventers?           

If Quatre did miss it, he was keeping quiet about it.  Quatre was considerate like that.           

“Duo, just stop,” Heero said.  Trowa blinked, looking down at the half empty sink.  He had missed the better part of the conversation, but Heero sounded about as angry as he normally allowed himself to get.

“But—”           

“Enough.  If Quatre’s unhappy, then he’s unhappy but he’s not going to mention it to us anyway, and you know that.  Besides,” he said, yanking a dishtowel off the counter and starting to dry the dishes Trowa had set in the drainer, “he knows that there’s always a place in Preventer for him.  Une’s had him on the books since before we signed up.  If, or when, he gets tired of being the political spy, he has another option.”

“He could always go back to Winner Corp, too,” Trowa added.

“Two options, then.”

Duo sighed but dropped the subject, stomping over to the cabinet to get saran wrap for the leftovers. 

Trowa shook his head slightly and turned a bit to set the glass he had just rinsed in the drainer.  He caught a momentary glimpse at his reflection in the microwave.  He was still nearly a head and a half over Heero, who never seemed to have hit that growth spurt that everyone else had gotten.  Probably something to do with space and all the experiments done on him in his youth.  It didn’t bother Heero much, anymore, unless someone directly mentioned it.  Duo though.  Trowa could see him just over his shoulder and even with the little bit of distance between them, Trowa could tell that he was several inches taller than him.  Good food and stability had done wonders for Duo.  And Quatre too, who almost reached Trowa’s height now. 

They had filled out better, too.  Muscles in all the right places, smooth lines along their hips and shoulders.  Which made the Preventer uniforms sit comfortably on them.  Trowa was tall but still lean, just this side of dangerously thin.  Worse, without the right adjustments, his body was slender in that way.  It never failed to make Trowa feel inadequate, feel young—like he was playing dress up with adults.           

_ Well if I keep wearing it, at least they’ll never notice it. _ __

Heero finished drying and putting away the last glass just as Trowa started draining the sink and Duo had closed the refrigerator.  Heero handed Trowa his dish towel to dry his hands.  “Right then,” Heero said.  “Let’s get going.”           

“Right,” Duo said, in that particular false cheerful way that let them know he was still annoyed.  Trowa simply nodded, folded up the towel and tossed it on the counter before following them both to the door.           

The wind was particularly harsh today, although Trowa had quickly learned that winter in Sanq was not the kindest.  Trowa’s skin already felt raw.  He yanked his zipper all the up and tugged his gloves on quickly as the hard wind tugged at his jacket, looking for openings to exploit.  The sky above them was dark and gray, the clouds low and heavy looking.  They could expect snow later today, tomorrow at the latest.

“Hey,” Duo called.  He and Heero had headed over to the car while Trowa was looking up.  “You going to ride with us, or is today another death-wish day?”  Trowa blinked slowly before heading over to his bike, tugging off the cover and holding it up.  “Oh come on, you’re going to freeze.”  Trowa brushed off his helmet and set it on his head.  “Fine, fine, just don’t come crying to me when they have to amputate something because you decided to ride in December, again.”           

“Duo,” Heero said.  “Just get in the car.”

Duo stuck his tongue at them good naturedly before getting into the car.  Trowa mounted his bike and started the ignition.  The vibration was familiar and calming.  He leaned forward slightly and waited for Heero to get settled into the driver’s seat.  It took longer than usual; they seemed to be discussing something, something important enough to keep Heero from turning over the engine.  It might have been his imagination, but they seemed to glance back him a few times.  Trowa stiffened.  Finally, though, he saw Heero shake his head and the car engine turned over.  Heero let it run for a moment before pulling out of the driveway.  Trowa followed close behind.           

If the wind had been cold before, it was nothing short of frozen hell once they reached posted speed.  It howled around Trowa, muffled only slightly by the engine and the helmet.  Whatever openings it had been looking for before, the wind found now.  He could feel the air against bits of his skin and shivered.  Normally, Trowa found cold rides like this bracing.  Tired as he was, though, it was hard to appreciate it.  Still, the ride gave him a chance to focus on other things, and the loud constant howling was oddly calming.  Isolating but peaceful.           

It was why Trowa only rode with them when he absolutely had to.  Rain or sun, heat or near ice, Trowa took the time to ride to work.  Even when there was a good inch of snow or icy rain, Trowa occasionally risked a headlong spill.  At least, he did until Heero strong-armed him into the car.           

Their commute was never very long.  They usually hit the “magic window,” as Duo called it, and left in that short span of time when the morning commuters weren’t completely choking the streets.  In fifteen minutes or so, Heero turned out of the traffic and drove down into the Preventer parking garage.  It was just two floors of spaces underneath the large, nondescript skyscraper that was the Preventer Headquarters, but they were broad enough that most agents had their own space.  Trowa weaved his bike through the last bit of traffic blocking him and followed Heero down into the garage.           

Heero and Duo were already getting out when Trowa pulled into the space beside them.  It was for a standard issue car, so it was much too large for the bike, but that did mean Trowa had to worry less about someone hitting it.  He turned off the engine and set it carefully on the kickstand before getting off.  It was not as graceful as he had hoped it would be.  Duo smirked at the cold-stiffened stumbling.

“That’s what you get for turning down my offer.  Again,” Duo said.           

Trowa snorted as he took off his helmet.  “Is that right?  And here I just thought it was winter.”

“Ha, ha smart ass.”

Heero shook his head at them and headed to the elevator.  Duo and Trowa followed him.  The elevator was not the oldest, but it had a tendency to rattle.  Still, it was better, and quicker, than taking twenty flights of stairs.           

They reached their floor in a few minutes.  The doors opened to the familiar fluorescent lights and cubicles.  As usual, there was more activity here than on other floors, or so Trowa had heard.  He didn’t go to many other floors.  Preventers moved along the rows of desk, running reports or errands, jogging up the aisle to talk to another agent about a case or a resource.  The three of them weaved carefully through the agents on the floor to their desks.  They were, thankfully, fairly close together.  Trowa headed over to his desk.  It hadn’t changed much since he had been assigned to it months ago.  Standard issue everything, very few personal touches, a stack of reports and papers that never seemed to stop growing. 

Someone could take it over easily and no one would ever know it had been his.  Duo kept telling him to decorate, but Trowa honestly had no idea what he would even want to add.           

“Ah, good morning Trowa.”  Trowa blinked and turned his head as Wufei called over to him.  He was smiling slightly as he moved between desks to reach Trowa’s.           

“Morning, Wufei.”           

Wufei frowned slightly, glancing down at the hands Trowa had folded neatly on his desk.  He examined them minutely before tutting slightly.  “Your hands are pale, and the skin’s drawn.  You rode again, didn’t you.”           

Trowa sighed. “I prefer it.”           

“You’ll get sick.”           

“I never get sick, but thank you for your concern.”           

Wufei’s frown deepened.  He opened his mouth to retort, but Zechs called for him from across the desk.  Wufei huffed through his nose.  Trowa, with a mild look on his face, waved Wufei off to see his partner, rolling his eyes at the mouthed word “later.”  Wufei always said that, but Trowa was quite good at avoiding those lectures.  Trowa watched the two of them for a moment.  They were looking over a report in Zechs’ hands.  As always, there was a closeness between them that was different than between other partners in the office.  Their hips seemed to almost touch as they stood together, and Zechs’ breath had to be ghosting along the back of Wufei’s neck with that angle. 

Then again, they were talking about engagement so he supposed it was to be expected.           

“They do look cute together, don’t they,” Duo said, just loudly enough for Trowa to catch.  It was the only way he could use that word to describe either of them without running the risk of disembowelment.  “But I don’t see how they get anything done.  They probably spend too much time arguing about who tops.”

Trowa made a face.  “Duo—”           

“Maxwell!” Une’s voice carried perfectly over the floor, especially since everyone quieted after a barked surname.  “The Desoto report?  Where is it?”           

“Coming right now,” Duo called back.  He leaned closer.  “That woman is a god damned slave driver,” he muttered.           

“She wouldn’t be if you turned your reports in on time.”           

“Why do you always take her side?”           

“Because she’s usually right.”           

“Nah, it’s because she’s nice to you,” he laughed, winking.  “I wouldn’t want to lose that perk either.”  Patting Trowa on the back, Duo hurried off to his desk to collect his report.           

Trowa scowled slightly.  Lady Une was, most of the time, a difficult woman to work for.  Her time in the military and her work directly under Treize Kushrenda left her with a stern disposition and little patience for antics.  While it was true that she had relaxed some since heading up Preventers, she was still demanding and exacting.  Rarely did she ever find a morning complete unless she had snapped at some (admittedly well-deserving) agent.  When it came to the law and to the fires they made it their careers to put out, there was no compassion in her. The job got done, or you were out of a job.           

Which made Une’s treatment of Trowa all the stranger.  The difference wasn’t particularly noticeable, unless you knew what to look for.  A certain easing of the mouth and eyes when she addressed him.  She always seemed to have something of a softer disposition towards him though.  It had never prevented her from scolding him thoroughly when he screwed up paperwork, but on the whole, she was more lenient with him.  Trowa had no idea what he had done to deserve it, but he wished she would stop.  He didn’t want to be treated any differently.  He didn’t want to be “different.”           

There was nothing to be done about it, though.  At least not now.  Shaking his head slightly, Trowa pulled over his usual stack of papers and got to work           

It was difficult to classify Trowa’s job.  He certainly wasn’t a field agent, and he was far from being a trainer.  Trowa rarely saw other agents than those on his immediate floor and area.  He didn’t help train or work with anyone, new or veteran either.  He was desk bound most days, but he wasn’t doing standard clerical work either.  Trowa spent most of his time working through other agents’ reports, cross-checking and cross-referencing cases and flagging anything suspicious and possibly patterned.  There was also a little bit of editing involved.  Strictly grammar of course.           

He wasn’t a secretary, but Trowa wasn’t sure what else he could be called.   _Paper-pusher_.  Did all new operatives get stuck with this?            

Not that Trowa was particularly new.  He had been on the books now for months.  That should have been long enough to get him into the field, but it hadn’t.  Perhaps it was because Trowa had a knack for this kind of work.  Patterns were easy for him to pick up, and he seemed to have the head for the detailing that was necessary cross-referencing.           

He wasn’t very proud of any of that.           

The morning passed by as it always did, with Trowa sitting at his desk and tuning out most of the floor noise in order as he worked through paper after paper.  Every so often, he’d catch a snatch of conversation and pause to process it.  Conversations about recent operations.  Comments on current affairs and politics.  Off color and on color jokes.  He catalogued them as they came but most of it was just what it was.  Noise.  Irrelevant to his work, irrelevant to him.  He tried not to feel too irritated by that as he worked.  Instead, Trowa focused on finding new patterns.  He thought he had one coming up in some shipment thefts.  Small amounts of “unrelated” items were being reported as missing in larger thefts.  There were enough incidences that it seemed like a line to follow.  Trowa held onto that line for most of the morning, and it performed its purpose perfectly.  Trowa didn’t have anything really to submit as his own line of inquiry, but when Duo rapped him over the head with a folder, it was just past lunch.           

“Food is fuel,” Duo reminded him as he walked past.           

Stretching, Trowa pushed back from the desk.  Now he felt the exhaustion in his eyes and his head.  The lighting in here was not the best for long periods of reading.  He rubbed his eyes and his neck for a moment before standing and heading for the elevator.  A short walk always helped, and the café where he preferred to get his lunch was just a couple blocks away.           

In less than fifteen minutes, Trowa was back at his desk, opening the small plastic café bag that had his sandwich and tea.  Trowa was just about it bite into it when Heero came up to his desk.  He pulled out the chair from the desk near him and sat down next to Trowa.           

“Something wrong,” Trowa asked.           

“Why don’t you come eat with us,” Heero asked, inclining his head back towards the elevator.           

“You know I don’t like what they serve here.”           

Heero frowned.  “That’s not what I asked.”  Trowa glanced towards him, lips pursed.  “I asked why don’t you come eat with us?  You never eat with us, we want you to eat lunch with us.”           

“Isn’t it rude for me to bring outside food to a cafeteria?”           

He snorted.  “If they’re not going to have vegetarian options, then that mess is on them.  Besides you’re not actually the only one that packs.”  Trowa shrugged slightly and turned back to his sandwich.  Heero watched him.  “You enjoy being up here by yourself.”           

“It’s quiet,” Trowa said.  “For a little while anyway.  I like it.”  Heero was quiet, an unusually thoughtful look on his face.  Trowa supposed he hadn’t actually considered that as a reason.  After a moment Heero nodded, but he didn’t leave.  Trowa waited for him to continue, taking a couple of careful bites of his sandwich.  Finally, Heero shifted.           

“Why didn’t you say anything at breakfast?”           

That was not the question he had been expecting.  Trowa frowned.  “I didn’t have anything to add.”           

“That’s not what I meant.  Why didn’t you say anything about the bacon in the salad?”           

Trowa choked slightly on the gulp of tea he had taken.  He shouldn’t have been surprised that Heero had noticed; Heero noticed everything.           

“It wasn’t worth mentioning.”           

“You’re a strict vegetarian.”           

“And it was an accident that I could have avoided by paying better attention.  Not worth mentioning.”           

“I think Quatre would have preferred if you had,” Heero said quietly.  “He wants to make sure you’re happy, you know.”           

“I’m fine,” Trowa said.           

Heero nodded once, turning slightly in the chair.  He folded his arms over his chest as he watched some agents head to the elevator for lunch.  “Maybe,” he said finally, “but sometimes he wonders.  And so do I.  Enjoy your lunch.”           

Trowa blinked, watching Heero rise and replace the chair at its usual desk.  He headed up the row to the elevator.  Duo was just coming out of it.  He cut Heero off, hands on his hips.  Trowa didn’t need to eavesdrop to hear Duo ask him where’d he been for lunch.

Sighing, Trowa shoved the rest of his lunch back in the bag.  He had lost his appetite.           

The afternoon went by much like the morning did.  Trowa continued working through his paperwork, but he found it much more difficult to concentrate.  The noise hadn’t increased, but his brief meeting with Heero lingered.  Of course, once his mind had decided to linger, then it began to wander.  When his mind wander, it tended to go places that Trowa would rather it would not go.  It was impossible to get back on track.           

There was one benefit, though.  It made the time go faster.  Eventually, Duo tapped him lightly on the shoulder.  Trowa looked up and saw all of them—Zechs and Wufei included—around his desk.           

“Quatre called,” Duo said.  “He managed to get out early and is in no mood to cook.  So he was thinking Italian.  He’s got us a table downtown.”           

They always got Italian at one place, and they were very good about vegetarian options.  Trowa’s throat tightened at the thought.  He glanced at the papers still on his desk and finally shook his head.           

“I really should finish these up.  Une needs them tomorrow.”

“Oh come on,” Duo whined. “Quatre never manages to skive off on time, let alone early.  He’s been dying to get everyone together, you’ve got to come.”

“These really can’t wait.

“Of course they can.  Just do them first thing—”           

“Just what we need,” Wufei said, rolling his eyes.  “Another procrastinator.”           

“I’d rather keep my head where it is, Duo, thanks.”  Zechs chuckled and Heero actually smiled.  Duo, though, scowled.           

“Quatre’s been dying to for a group dinner.  It’s not ‘the group’ if you’re not there.”           

“I know, but I need to finish this.  Quatre will understand.  Next time.”           

“For god’s sake, Trowa—”           

“We understand,” Heero cut across.  Duo threw him a dark, furious look that Heero perfectly ignored.  “Quatre knows that the job comes first.  He’ll be disappointed, but he’ll understand.”           

Something about Heero agreeing with him almost made Trowa cave.  Instead he managed a faint smile.  “Tell him I’m sorry and that I’ll make it up to him.”           

“We will.  You’re sure it really can’t wait.”           

“I might have a line on something new, but I need to get through these to make sure.”           

Heero nodded.  “All right then.  Don’t stay too late, and eat something later.”

“Will do.”           

“Good night then, Trowa.”

“Good night, have fun.  See you all tomorrow."

Trowa turned back to his paperwork and pretended that he couldn’t hear the muttering after they had said their goodbyes and headed for the elevator.  Duo’s voice tended to carry, though.  Trowa glanced over once, just enough to catch the way Heero had Duo by the elbow and was almost steering him up the row.  Duo was “insistent” on a lot of things, but he was generally understanding about what needed to be prioritize.  One thing he could never accept, though, is when group plans just couldn’t work out.  Or worse, when just one of them couldn’t work it out.  Trowa sighed.  He would be miserable tomorrow, too, but Trowa would make it up to them.  To them all.  Eventually.           

Quatre would be disappointed, and he would give them all that understanding but sad smile.  He would probably wish that they could take something to Trowa’s desk.  Duo hated that look.  They all did, actually.  It was hard to see Quatre upset because so little actually made him upset.  Trowa sighed.  He almost got up.  Instead though, Trowa gripped his pen tighter and turned back to the paperwork.           

So they would talk about it.  He had given them the perfect opportunity to, without them having to worry that he might overhear.  They would have all the space they needed to wonder about him, gossip behind his back, pick apart his decisions and wonder what, if anything, they could do to fix it all.           

Trowa couldn’t stop the snort.  They could never “fix” his problems.

The floor was nearly empty by the time Trowa finished the stack of papers.  The day shift had already gone home, and the night shift was skeleton at the moment.  He glanced over at the wall clock.  It had taken him much longer to finish than he thought it would.  They would probably be sipping coffee now, or had altogether skipped dessert and headed home.  He’d probably get an earful from Duo when he got home now.           

Standing, Trowa got his jacket from the back of his chair before pushing it in.  He draped it over his arm as he headed up the row to the elevator.  The light in Une’s office was still on; Trowa caught a glimpse of it coming from the crack at the bottom of it.  He could drop off the reports now.  It would give him a chance to brief her on the pattern he was finding.           

He’d do it tomorrow.

In the elevator, Trowa leaned his shoulder against the wall.  He should go home, but he had no interest in a lecture.  They’d head to bed soon, though, which would give him just enough time.  He hadn’t bothered to visit the floor in a while; there wasn’t a reason to, but Trowa needed the distraction right now.  He waited as the elevator rose and then finally shivered to a stop.  The doors slid open.  Trowa stepped out.

Since he wasn’t a field operative, Trowa didn’t have many reasons to visit the training facilities.  He was allowed to access them, though, and after a long day it was a nice place to be.  This late, it was empty.  Trowa stepped a little further into the high ceiled room.  The motion sensors finally picked him up and turned on the overhead fluorescent lights.  Trowa took a moment to look around the room, with its separate sections for specialized training and its closed doors along the walls, before heading towards one of the far quarters.  They usually used the space for sparring and close combat training, but it would do.  The mats would at least be well used and just the right kind of springing. 

Trowa stood to the side of the mat as he tossed his jacket and tie on the floor and toed out of his shoes and socks.  Barefoot, Trowa walked slowly to the nearest corner, stretching a little as he moved.  He stopped and looked across the mat.  Closing his eyes, he took a moment to breathe deeply.  The AC was still running in the room.  The air was sharp and cool.  Energizing.

Eyes snapping open, Trowa sprinted across the mat.  A quarter into it, he started cartwheeling, transitioning into handsprings, and ending with a perfect triple full flip.  Trowa stuck the landing, letting his head fall back.  A bead of sweat dripped down his temple.  His heart was thudding in his ribs.  The adrenaline felt spectacular.

It had been so long since he had used his body like this, what with the sedentary nature of his new work.  But his body remembered, quick and well.  Trowa’s muscles warmed quickly as he went through routine after routine, moving back and forth across the mat.  Back flips, full layouts, aerials, round-the-backs.  His own “signature”.  Trowa’s body flowed from one move into the next, completely separate from his control, it seemed.  It missed the activity so much, it just kept going, moving like water without any obstruction.  Rushing down, gaining speed.  Trowa pushed himself further and further as the adrenaline pumped.  His endorphins peaked.           

Trowa didn’t even realize that he couldn’t breathe until his hand suddenly refused to accept his weight.

The fall crushed what little air Trowa still had in his lungs.  He crumpled to the mat, heaving and shuddering as the breathlessness threatened to shut him down.  Black creeped across his vision as Trowa tried to get to his knees, a sudden wave of vertigo making it all the darker.  Heart pounding against his ribs, Trowa panicked.  He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see.  His heart was going to snap his ribs.  His chest burned.  His lungs were going to collapse—

_They are not!  You’re passing out!  And, and you can stop it!_ He had to take it off, though.  But he couldn’t do it here.  The cameras would see.  Trowa wasn’t sure if he’d be able to make it to the locker room though.           

He had to try.           

He would have to hack into the feed later to run looped footage.  The last thing Trowa needed was someone noticing that the cameras had caught him crawling across the training floor towards the locker room.   Crawling was his only option though.  He’d never be able to stand in this condition.  The pressure would be too much, and if he fell again, there would be no way he would get a second chance.  So Trowa crawled, slowly, vision and breathing slipping with each careful movement.  There was no way for him to calculate how far he had gone, or how much further he had to go.  He just had to keep going.  He had to make it before all of his senses left him.           

Because god, if someone found him like this.  If they found him, unconscious or dead, and they saw—           

The sudden feeling of the cold locker room tile under his hand shocked Trowa.  He fell to the floor, managed to pull himself a little further away from the door, and rolled onto his side.  The motion sensors had it caught him, so he struggled with his shirt buttons in the dim light.  His fingers fumbled and slid over the small buttons.  Black slid over his vision, and the growl he tried to make sounded weak and frightened and far away in his ears.  Trowa finally got it open and wriggled out of it.  He didn’t care where it went.  Trowa’s shaking fingers slid along the clasps on the side.  He couldn’t get his nails under them.  Trowa choked and pulled.  He thought something popped.           

Air rushed back into his lungs.  Trowa sucked it in gratefully before pulling the rest of the binder’s clasps open.  He wriggled carefully until he could slide the tight cloth off his chest and over his head.  Free, Trowa rolled onto his back and breathed.  It took him a moment to get the panicked panting under control.  His heart hammered in his chest, and the air he pulled in tasted metallic and stale.  Eventually though, everything eased.  By then though, the sweat had dried and cooled on his skin.  Trowa shivered.

That had been close.  Too close.  He could have suffocated.  He could have died.

_ Fuck it all, I’m out of shape! _ __

Trowa sat up slowly, grimacing.  It had been easier in the war.  The constant activity had been constant practice.  He could go a whole day with the binder on then, doing all sorts of activity, because he was constantly thinking about it.  Always regulating his breathing, always managing his heart rate, always training to push his limits that much further.  Now, though, with his new state of inactivity, his body had forgotten how to do it.  He couldn’t even do acrobatics with it on now.  He couldn’t do anything with the damn thing on.           

He lifted his head slightly.  No, he could do things.  Just…not what he wanted to.  And he couldn’t train with it either.  Not anymore.  Not while living with them.  Not without them noticing, knowing.  Realizing.  Trowa sighed and reached for the binder.  He inspected it carefully.  The pop he had heard was a stitch around one of the clasps, but Trowa could fix that.  He had done it before.  Trowa shifted towards the light to give it a second look over, just to be sure.

The movement stopped him.  He had seen it, just off to the right.  A vague form shifting along the wall with him.  It stopped when he did, staying still as Trowa studied it with narrow eyes.  Trowa knew what it was, and he knew what it would show.  He shouldn’t approach it, he should go home, but suddenly Trowa felt compelled.  Binder abandoned on the floor, Trowa stood.  He crossed the locker room floor on shaky legs.  His body passed through a narrow strip of light that came in from the door.

His reflection faded in and out of focus in the mirror.           

Trowa stopped just short of the mirror.  Even in the dimness, he could see every curve and edge of his body.  It was a perfect imprint on his mind.  Trowa pressed his fingers against the glass and ran them along the edges of his reflection.  Along the sharp angles of his cheek and jaw, down the narrow neck, along the slender and curved shoulder bone.  Trowa swallowed as his fingers continued trailing downward.  They passed around the outer contour of his chest—the places where soft curve and hard line met and mingled.  Trowa reached his hip.  His fingers twitch.  He yanked his hand away from the glass, sucking in a breath.           

The reflection wavered slightly as Trowa’s eyes watered.           

Biting back tears, Trowa leaned most of his weight into the mirror, arms hanging down by his sides.  The glass was cold against his skin.  Shivering, and knowing that he shouldn’t, Trowa ran his hands up his arms and rubbed carefully.  It didn’t help, and it wasn’t long until his hands moved away from the safety of his arms.  Trowa’s hands roamed slowly along his skin, pretending that they had forgotten the feel of flesh and bone and mismatched musculature.  His fingers brushed the top of his slacks.  Without stopping to think about the consequences, Trowa undid them.           

He pushed back from the mirror, stumbling in the undid pants as he stepped back.  Trowa kicked them off carefully as he walked back.  Back and back, stepping out of one leg and then the other, until he could leave the pants on the floor.  Back and back, until Trowa could see himself, in all his entirety, in the mirror with a single glance.

Trowa’s jaw clenched as he looked at the body he despised.

A chill shivered down his spine as something, a ghost from a past that refused to stay buried, fell over him.  He could almost feel it, like a hand, whispering along his skin, making him more and more aware of the shape of his body.  The muscles in Trowa’s stomach tightened as he followed that shadow of a touch with his own hands.  His fingers followed the ghost touch along his slightly rounded hips, over sharp pelvic bones, towards his too-tapered waist.  The ghost touch split, two phantom hands traveling up his chest and down his thigh.  Trowa followed them, until one hand stopped just short of his small, cold-stiffened breasts and the other hesitated over his small flaccid penis towards that, that spot between his legs.  His fingers met warm dampness.  Trowa flinched.  A low, miserable noise escaped his throat.

And somewhere in the back of his head, from the place where the ghost touch came from and lived when it was not trailing along his skin, Trowa heard it.  A sharp, whispered word.  It repeated itself, in a dozen different voices, until it was all Trowa could hear.  Gritting his teeth, Trowa lifted his head.  He gazed into his reflection, eyes narrow and watery, his lips parting into a snarl as they formed the word.           

“Freak.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trowa goes to the circus

It had been raining since the night before, but the wind had only really picked up in the last hour. So when the wind threw rain against Trowa’s bedroom window, he jumped. He crossed over to it and pulled back the curtain. It wasn’t ice yet, but it was coming down in a solid diagonal sheet. He sighed. Driving in rain was always difficult; driving in driving, potential freezing rain was stupid. They would worry. They’d offer to take him themselves.

The hell with that.

Trowa headed back to the bed, where the duffle bag that Heero had lent him was still sitting half full. Catherine’s letter was neat, folded and refolded until the lines of the folds were permanently etched into the paper. Trowa picked it up. He had read it a dozen times already, but Trowa always did. Catherine often wrote him letters in the intervals between visits. An old fashioned habit, she admitted, but she thought there was something more personal and meaningful to them than emails or phone calls. Trowa tended to agree. It made the months they spent apart easier to bear.

He smiled a little as he read the letter again, Catherine’s excitement making her already narrow and looping writing even more difficult to read. She had limited herself to a page, surprisingly, but he supposed the prospect of telling him recent news in person was enough to keep her letter somewhat brief. Heero had finally let her have their current address (He usually received her letters at work because some habits died hard, Heero’s hardest of all, and he still didn’t quite believe that they were safe from retaliation from the war) and she had figured out that the circus would be setting up shop just down the road. Or as down the road ninety minutes at highway speeds was. She had invited him out to see her almost immediately. They had so much catching up to do, and if he came just after they set up the grounds, he wouldn’t get roped into work.

Trowa wouldn’t have minded getting roped into the work. He missed it, honestly, and working would keep her distracted, which might mean he could get through the weekend without having to explain that he was a paper-pusher. Catherine was going to be so pleased with it; it was a “safe” job after all.

Folding up the letter and tucking it into the duffle bag, Trowa laid back on the bed. It was just a weekend, a long weekend. Three months had passed since he had seen her or the circus last, there would be so much for her to tell him. Who left, who came in, who got hurt, what acts got moved. If he kept her talking, which was never too hard, Catherine might not even ask him too much about his new job. She would, but he could hope.

And Trowa did miss her. He missed living with her and he missed her constant concern. He missed the way she always insisted that he tell her everything. When she knew everything, Catherine usually came back with a perspective that he never considered. He normally never did anything with it, but it was still nice to have. It was nice to have her always behind him.

Sighing, he sat up and resumed packing. Packing as a civilian was oddly more complicated than packing as a mercenary or terrorist. In the end, Trowa fell back onto old habits: light necessities for survival, and then add a spare change of clothes and toiletries.

He ran through a mental checklist twice before nodding and zipping up the duffle bag. Before he picked it up, though, Trowa went to the dresser and refolded the clothes he had rumpled. If he left them, they would wrinkle and he tended to wear these shirts to work. As he folded, Trowa caught the sound of television outside the bedroom. Someone was probably watching the weather to see how bad the storm would get. If they could show him the radar, they might be able to convince him. Trowa nudged the dresser drawer closed and grabbed the bag off the bed. He shouldered it. It was surprisingly light, but that was fine. It would be easier to ride with.

Taking one last look at the bedroom, Trowa flicked off the ceiling light and headed out into the hall. It was surprisingly, comfortably, warm. With the temperature dropping outside, Heero had upped the heat in the house, which was generous considering his tendency to overheat. Trowa padded quietly up the hall towards the living room, the voices from the television getting progressively louder. The living room and dining joined by a large open door, with the back of the leather couch Quatre had picked up facing the door. Trowa moved quietly towards the dining room table. He set the duffle bag down before heading back to the couch and leaning on the back of it. Quatre was so engrossed in the weather report that he didn’t even notice.

“I’m surprised, first weekend off in months and you’re watching television,” Trowa said. Quatre squeaked and jumped several inches off the couch. He fell back into it with a gasp, clutching his chest. 

“Trowa! Shit, you scared me.”

“I noticed, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said, smiling. “You’re just so quiet, still. It’s hard to know when you’re sneaking around. Besides, I’m only watching this until Duo and Heero stop bickering.”

“They’re at it again?”

“They took it to another room, thank god.”

“What set them off now?”

“Not sure actually,” Quatre said. He turned slightly to look up the stairs. “Pretty sure Duo mentioned something about movies.” Movies? That seemed like an odd thing to fight over, to Trowa at least. Quatre shrugged and reached over to the coffee mug on the table. He took a couple sips before smiling up at Trowa again. “All set?”

He nodded. “I’ll be heading out in a few minutes.”

“The storm’s really starting to pick up,” Quatre said, gesturing towards the news report. “Are you sure you want to take your bike?”

“I’m sure.”

“It’s going to ice over pretty quick at this rate, not to mention the wind.”

“I’ll be alright.”

“We could give you a ride, it’s not far at all,” Quatre said hopefully. Trowa was prepared. He shook his head.

“I’m not going to let you drive me to my sister’s on your only day off, in the pouring rain. That’s just not fair.”

“But--”

“I’ll be fine, Quatre. Like you said, it’s not far away,” Trowa insisted. “I’ll even text you when I get there.” 

Quatre sighed but smiled all the same. “All right, all right have it your way. Be careful, text me.”

“Will do.” Trowa headed towards the table, listening as Quatre rose and started to follow him. Quatre paused only once, to call up the stairs to Heero and Duo. Of course, he would insist on the three of them seeing Trowa off. Trowa waited for them by the door, with his duffle bag by his feet. He had just finished putting on his jacket and zipping it up by the time Duo and Heero met Quatre at the bottom of the stairs. For someone just having an argument, Duo looked surprisingly cheerful.

He smacked Heero lightly on the arm as they came towards the door. “See? I told you he’d risk freezing and electrocution. Pay up.”

“I never actually agreed.”

“I have a better chance at winning the lottery than being struck by lightning, actually,” Trowa said.

“Not when you’re riding a metal bike.”

“Most of its plastic.”

“Fine, but your chances of freezing are great.” Trowa couldn’t disagree with that so he shrugged and pulled the duffle bag strap over his head.

“He’ll be fine,” Heero said. “The temperature won’t drop below freezing until tonight.”

“Yeah but with that wind?”

“The wind chill won’t be enough.”

Duo huffed. “Why do you always take his side?”

Heero ignored the question. “Have a good trip, Trowa. Be careful.”

“I will.”

“Say ‘hello’ to Catherine for us.”

“I will.”

“I can’t believe Une gave you a three-day weekend,” Duo muttered.

“Maybe if you made fewer mistakes,” Trowa said, “she’d give you one.”

Duo threw a hand over his heart. “Oh now that’s what we call hitting below the belt, man.”

“Don’t walk into it then.” Trowa thanked Heero quietly as he handed Trowa’s his helmet. “See you guys Monday night.”

“Have a nice visit,” Quatre said as Trowa turned towards the door.

“Don’t get struck by lightning,” Duo teased. Trowa rolled his eyes as he stepped outside. The wind and cold rain made the world smell sharp and clean.

“We might come see the show Sunday, if we can get there,” Quatre mentioned.

“If you’d like,” Trowa said. “Catherine would probably like that, but don’t trouble yourselves. If you’re busy, you’re busy.”

There was a strain in Quatre’s smile that told him the comment had somehow hurt, but Quatre waved him goodbye anyway. “Have fun,” he called after Trowa as he headed down the short steps from the stoop. Trowa tugged his helmet on quickly, the rain soon making small echoing plinks against the plastic. He mounted his bike, checked the strap of the duffle bag, and started the engine. He didn’t look back quite far enough as he waved, and so he wasn’t exactly sure if he had seen a full look of concern pass between Heero and Quatre. By the time Trowa left the driveway, though, and could get a full glimpse of the house from the street, everyone was back inside, warm and dry. 

Trowa reeved the engine and peeled off down the wet road.

As he hit the highway and highway speeds, the cold and the sharp chill faded, leaving only the quiet pleasure of driving in the quiet rain. Rain made the silence of a helmet and a motorcycle different. More absolutely, in a way, as the water kept less daring drivers off the road and the sleeting sheets of water in the air muffled everything. It was isolating, wrapping him in a cold but comfortingly quiet shield of wind and water. No one else would be foolish enough to drive in this, so Trowa got to have it all to himself. The rain and Trowa were completely alone, and it was bliss.

Minus the chance of contracting pneumonia.

The cold and the wet were less pleasing by the time Trowa reached the circus grounds. The storm had let up some but never actually stopped. He pulled into the grounds soaking wet and feeling several pounds heavier for it once he got off the bike. Gripping the handlebars, Trowa pushed the bike across the muddy grounds. The main tent was already up, as were the holding tents for the equipment and animals. With the weather, though, no one was actually out. They all seemed to be in the trailers; most of the lights in the line of mobile homes were on. Trowa pushed the bike to the most familiar trailer. Knowing as she did that Trowa would be coming, Catherine had already hung up the side awning. Trowa gratefully leaned the bike against the side of the trailer. He hurried up to the trailer door and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately with a squeal and Trowa suddenly found himself yanked into the warmer trailer and an even warmer hug. Catherine squeezed him as tightly as she was able, effectively crushing the air from his lungs. Trowa dropped the helmet.

“Trowa, oh Trowa! It’s been so long, it’s so good to see you,” Catherine said, her voice choking slightly. 

“Yes but Catherine I can, can’t breathe,” Trowa gasped. Catherine blinked and then gasped, pulling away. Trowa coughed and cleared his throat before smiling. “I’ve missed you too. Can we try that again, with a bit less force?” 

Catherine smiled and hugged him again, lighter this time. Trowa wrapped his arms around her waist. “Oh I missed you,” she said, kissing his cheek. “It’s been forever.” Catherine stepped back and took his face in her hands, tutting as she turned it this way and that. “You look tired, and your cheeks are shallow, but you look good. Very good, despite the fact that you’re soaked.” She frowned as she flicked water off her fingers. “You didn’t get a ride, did you?”

“The rain isn’t that bad.”

“Except it’s borderline freezing.”

“Not until tonight.” 

“And the lightning?”

“There hasn’t been lightning all day.”

Catherine huffed, sounding remarkably like Duo. “You’re lucky you didn’t fall and break your neck. Get out of those wet clothes.”

“Yes Catherine,” Trowa sighed. He slid the duffle bag off his back and stepped out of his boots before heading towards the bathroom.

“And I’m not taking care of you if you get sick,” she called after him. Trowa couldn’t stop himself from smiling slightly. The day Catherine didn’t take care of him when he so much as sniffled would be a cold day in hell.

It took less than ten minutes for Trowa to change in the narrow bathroom, hanging the wet coat and pants on the shower curtain rod and dressing in a dry, thin turtleneck and jeans. He left the duffle bag on the towel he had run over his hair just inside the bathroom—to keep it from dripping too much on the floor—before heading back to the small dinette table Catherine had for her kitchen table. She had a cup of fresh tea already brewed and waiting for him.

“Passable,” Catherine said after looking him up and down. “At least you don’t look like a drowned rat anymore.”

“You sound so much like Duo sometimes, it’s frightening,” Trowa said quietly. Catherine blinked and then laughed. Eyes closed, face scrunched laugh. It was a rich, room-filling sound and Trowa found himself smiling more. It was a noise that he had missed and forgotten just how much he had missed it. Catherine ran a hand over the top of his head before sitting down across from him with a cup of coffee. 

She waited until she had taken a sip before making a face. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,” she said, waving at his tea absently. “Like drinking pressed flowers.”

“It’s better than drinking liquid chalk,” Trowa said, nodding at her mug.

“This isn’t chalk.”

“Certainly taste like chalk.”

“Because you’ve eaten chalk recently, have you?” Trowa snorted and took a long, slow sip just to spite her. Catherine chuckled. “I’ve missed arguing with you about coffee and tea.”

“That’s an odd thing to miss.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Besides it’s only one of many things that I miss about you not living here.” Catherine looked at him over her mug. “You don’t miss me?”

“I didn’t say that, I just said arguing is an odd thing to miss.”

“Even playful arguing?” Trowa shrugged slightly. “Well, don’t you miss being able to sit, just like this?”

“Of course I do.”

The look she gave him as she took a sip of her coffee told Trowa, in no uncertain terms, that she didn’t believe him. He sighed, setting the mug down on the table, a trace of hurt in the gesture and in the way he started to say her name and then stopped. It was difficult, even now, for him to say some things. To talk “normally” as Duo put it. Trowa still found that his tongue didn’t always match his brain and that meaning got a little lost somewhere between thought and voice. 

Catherine noticed his discomfort. She reached across the table and laid a warm hand across his. “I’m sorry, Trowa,” she said. Her voice was gentle but firm, showing the absolute seriousness of her apology. “Sometimes, I forget but I know that you don’t need words to convey everything. I know that you missed me too.” Trowa smiled softly. Catherine may not have fully understood but she accepted. She always accepted. I just wish I could say the things people want to hear. I wish I knew how to.

She squeezed his hand and smiled. “Come on, gossip with me. How are your roommates,” she asked sipping her coffee again.

Trowa shrugged and Catherine sighed.

“A shrug is not an answer.”

“Well, I’m not sure what you want to know.”

“Alright, let’s start with the basics: is anyone injured?”

“No.”

“Is anyone engaged?”

“No.”

“Is anyone pregnant?”

Trowa choked on his tea. “They’re all guys.” Catherine smirked and winked.

“Just checking to see if you’re paying attention.” Trowa snorted and sipped his tea. “Anyone dating?”

He was quiet before nodding. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Really? Well come on, details.”

“What details?”

“Like who’s dating who? Where they go, how they seem to be getting along, if a ring is in the future. You know, details.”

Details sounded a little too much like “stalking” to Trowa, but he set his mug down and considered. “Well Wufei moved in with Zechs about, about six months ago now.”

“The one with the ponytail, little bit of a sourpuss,” Catherine confirmed. Trowa could almost see the look of loathing that Wufei would have if he heard the name “sourpuss.” He nodded. “So they moved in together just after the war?”

“A month or two after, but they’re getting along fine.” 

“Well that’s good to hear. I don’t think I ever met Zechs.”

“I don’t think you have.” Trowa decided not to mention now that Zechs had been OZ, or that Wufei had been with Mariameia, for however briefly. Factions were still a touchy subject for her.

She smiled. “I’m happy for them. It’s nice when you can find someone to spend your life with. So anyone else?”

“Heero and Duo are still dating,” Trowa started. This time it was Catherine choking on her coffee.

“Wait, they’re dating? Since when?”

“Since always? At least the end of the war.”

“Seriously? But Heero’s so serious and no-nonsense and Duo’s so, so—”

“Energetic,” Trowa suggested.

“I was going to say ‘crazy’ but that’s much nicer.” Catherine shook her head. “So they’re dating. And not killing each other?”

“They bicker, but they’ve always bickered. Just part of the way they communicate, I guess.”

“Well it’s hard not to bicker with Duo.” Catherine ran her fingers through her hair but smiled. “They do say that opposites attract, and they’re definitely opposites. And if they really do like each other, well then I guess they were made for each other.”

“They seem happy enough.”

“Must make for some interesting moments though.” Trowa glanced at her over the rim of his mug, eyebrow raising slightly. “Well they’re so different. There’s got to have been some interesting events with the two of them.” 

“I really wouldn’t know.”

Catherine blinked. “But you all live together.”

“And they’re discreet.”

“You still live together.”

“So? That doesn’t mean they can’t be discreet about their relationship.” The fact that they were, for the most part, was something that Trowa was extremely grateful for. While it was certainly, perfectly, within their rights to show affection to one another however they chose wherever they chose, Trowa appreciated the fact that Heero and Duo kept public or semi-public displays of affection to a minimum. He wasn’t exactly sure he would be able to handle the two of them hanging off each other all the time; the jealousy would just be too much. 

Trowa didn’t have to worry about it, though. They were very respectful of Trowa and Quatre’s relationship status and feelings. Besides, Heero never really struck Trowa as the kind of man to accept an overabundance of cuddling. In private or public.

Catherine frowned a little. “Are you sure they’re still together? Maybe they’ve broken up and just haven’t mentioned it?”

Trowa struggled against a grimace. No, he was quite certain they were still together. Aside from the few and far between moments of affection—because they kept them to a minimum, not rejected them entirely—Heero and Duo still shared a bedroom and a bed. And if the near nightly noises were any indication, breaking up was the last thing on their mind.

He had considered reminding them that his bedroom was just underneath theirs, but decided against it in the end. Trowa was very good at ignoring them now.

“I’m sure. They’re still dating.”

“Well, as long as they’re happy,” Catherine said. They were quiet for a few minutes, apart from sips of their respective beverages. Trowa listened to the rain tap against the trailer roof. It was just starting to pick up again when Quatre set down her empty mug. “What about Quatre?”

He had been listening so intently the question didn’t quite register. “What?”

“Quatre. Is Quatre seeing anyone?”

Trowa frowned. “No, he’s not seeing anyone,” he answered carefully. Catherine tilted her head and Trowa shrugged. “He’s too busy with his job to worry about dating right now.” It was something else that Trowa was secretly, shamefully, grateful for. He should have been sad for Quatre; Quatre wore his heart on his sleeve most days, and there were many days where he just looked lonely and sad. He should be encouraging Quatre to meet someone, not secretly hope that the office work piled up enough to keep him from never looking outside for a partner. It was incredibly selfish, which was part of the reason Trowa kept it to himself.

“He’s in politics now, isn’t he? Advising Relena Peacecraft.”

“He’s on her council. She appreciates his experiences and knowledge.”

“I see,” she said. Trowa watched her look down at her empty mug and run a finger along the lip. It was coming, that question. He knew it was coming, so Trowa waited. “So not seeing anyone, for certain?” Trowa nodded once. “And I don’t suppose you’re seeing anyone either.”

And there it was. Trowa set his mug on the table and folded his hands in front of him. “We are not dating, and we are not going to be dating any time soon.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Trowa said flatly.

Catherine’s expression darkened. “ ‘Because’ is not an answer, it’s an evasion.” Trowa bit back an angry retort and stood instead, taking his mug over to the counter. “Now give me a real answer, Trowa.” He was surprised that he didn’t break the mug when he slammed it down on the counter in frustration.

“The same reason Quatre isn’t dating anyone. He’s too busy.”

“You two live together. You see each other every day. You—”

“It won’t work, Catherine.”

“Why not, Trowa?”

He sighed. “He leaves first, come home last, and spends most of his time off preparing for work. The last thing he needs is to feel guilty about not being there for his partner, even if he’s physically in the same room.” Trowa picked up the infuser and set in the mug before topping the mug off with hot water from the kettle. “Besides.”

“Besides what?”

“I highly doubt I’m his, his type.”

He could almost see the confused look she gave him behind his back. “His type?”

“Yes Catherine, I’m not his type.”

If Trowa wanted to be honest, he was certain he was no one’s type. Certainly not Quatre’s, or Heero’s, or Duo’s. Not anyone’s. Trowa’s disgusting body separated him from most of the human race. He was sure there had to be others; he had researched the statistics, but his condition was on the rarer side of spectrum. He had never met anyone even remotely like him. Not that he had ever asked. It was not exactly appropriate. Trowa closed his eyes and sighed, curling forward over the steeping mug. No, he had resigned himself to the fact that he was no one was type, least of all theirs. The very idea of them finding out, of their reaction if they knew—if they saw him—sent a terrified shiver down his spine.

“Trowa,” Catherine said finally. A touch of anger was in her voice when she said his name this time. Trowa opened his eyes and frowned. He pulled the infuser carefully from the mug. “Why are you wearing that?” Trowa stiffened, steaming infuser dangling from his fingertips. Swallowing, he didn’t answer. Catherine’s chair screeched against the floor as she stood. “Why are you wearing that binder?”

Trowa tossed the infuser into the sink, hard. “I’m not—”

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Trowa Barton. I can see it through your shirt.” Trowa cursed; he knew he should have put the sweater on. “That’s not the one we made, is it?”

“Catherine,” Trowa started. Her hand appeared suddenly on his shoulder. She yanked him around with strength that Trowa had forgotten. The strength that got her through emergency set up and break downs, that hauled up the tent roof when a support snap. The strength that had helped him get Heero into the trailer. That had gotten her through the war. She looked up him up and down, scowling. 

“God damn it, it is, isn’t it? Damn it, Trowa, you promised me you’d get rid of it.”

“It’s not broken, I’m not throwing out something that’s not broken.”

“It’s too tight for you. You promised me you would stop wearing it, that you’d find something better. Something safer. You promised me when you left that you wouldn’t do this to yourself anymore.”

Trowa’s eyes narrowed. “I did no such thing,” he growled through his teeth. Yanking himself from her grip, he turned back to his tea.

“The hell you didn’t,” Catherine snapped. “You told me you would stop. God, Trowa, you need to get rid of that thing. It’s not safe.”

“I’m perfectly happy with it,” he said coldly, “and in case you’ve forgotten, you were the one that made this ‘thing’.”

“I know, and I wish I hadn’t,” she said softly. Trowa bit the inside of his cheek as he felt his pulse starting to rise. “I didn’t know any better, but I do now. I’ve done more research and I know we can do something safer.” His breathing quickened. Trowa tightened his hands around the mug to steady himself. Control himself. “It won’t make you as flat.” Trowa sucked in a breath. “But that material is just far too tight. There’s much better materials. More flexible, more forgiving.” Forgiving was the last thing he needed! Trowa gripped the mug. “Trowa, Trowa please. You can’t do this to yourself. You could kill yourself with that thing, with the way you wear it and how active you are.” Active! Is that what they called it now? He ground his teeth, blood pounding in his ears. “Trowa, you’re going to damage your body.”

“Fine!” The voice came from somewhere outside himself, and it forced his hands to slam the mug hard enough on the counter to shatter it. “Let it be damaged, I don’t care!”

The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the rain on the roof and Trowa’s sharp, ragged breathing. His shoulders rose and fell hard with each choking breath. He swallowed, trying without success to move the odd lump that had developed in his throat. The name of it, the emotion that had just ripped through him, was on the tip of his tongue, but Trowa couldn’t name it. He didn’t want to. His body had been on fire with it, had wanted to smash things, more things than the mug, with it. The fury of it scared him.

Trowa was always so careful with his emotions, but he couldn’t control that one. Not right then. The anger had slipped its leash, and it frightened him because Trowa couldn’t remember the last time he had been that angry. Or why.

Something cold lay suddenly across his hands. Trowa jumped. Catherine shushed him gently, wrapping a cool cloth around his shaking clenching fingers. It was only now that Trowa noticed that the skin of his hands was uncomfortably hot. Almost painful. There was steaming water all over the countertop.

“I don’t think it was hot enough to burn, burn. Does it hurt a lot,” she asked gently. Trowa swallowed and shook his head. She smiled gently. “Good, but we’ll leave that on for a couple minutes anyway, just to be safe.”

Still shaking some, Trowa stepped back from the counter, giving Catherine enough room to wipe the hot water and ceramic carefully into the sink. She took down another mug after she had cleaned up and set a new mug of tea to steeping with fresh leaves. While she waited for it, Catherine turned and smiled at him. She took his wrapped hands carefully in her own and removed the damp towel. His fingers were a pale, reddish color. It wouldn’t be permanent, but it would sting for a bit.

“I’m sorry,” Trowa murmured, barely able to lift his head to look at her. Catherine tilted her head down so she could catch his eye from behind the safe sweep of hair.

“It’s alright, Trowa.”

“No, no it’s not. This isn’t your fault, I should have never, I don’t why I, god I’m sorry.” Catherine watched Trowa as he babbled. Trowa kept his eyes fixed to the floor as he tried, and failed, to explain how he could have let the anger go so easily. He had held it close so long. After a moment, Catherine tugged Trowa close, arms wrapping securely around his waist.

“It’s not your fault either, Trowa,” she assured him, squeezing gently. She reached up and pet the back of his hair. She kept up the light gesture until Trowa started to relax in her arms. Then Catherine turned and kissed his temple. “How about an early dinner, hm? Then you can get some sleep. You must be tired for all the rain and the cold. And then you’ll be nice and rested for visiting tomorrow. Everyone’s missed you.”

After a moment, Trowa nodded. “That, that sounds like a good idea.”

“Great then let’s get started. We’ll go all out,” she laughed. Trowa, managing faint smile, nodded.

In a few minutes, the towel was folded up on the side of the sink and Trowa was standing beside Catherine, cutting up vegetables for her to sauté. As he chopped and she prepared the stock for homemade soup, Catherine chattered on, telling Trowa anything and everything that he had missed since he had left the circus troupe. She didn’t expect him to say anything, which he appreciated. He just stood beside her, letting her words wash over him, nodding when it seemed appropriate as she told him all the “gossip” on the grounds. 

As Trowa went to wash and peel potatoes, he stopped to watch Catherine. She smiled as she spoke and sautéed and stirred, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong in the world. As if he hadn’t just had something that could have been a momentary meltdown in her kitchen. It never ceased to amaze him how easily she adapted to him. It still amazes him how quickly she wrote off any of his, all of his, abnormalities as entirely ordinary. Catherine had been and still was the only person he almost felt able to discuss it with.

He hadn’t told her about it at first. Trowa tried not to tell anyone about it. There had been a few people had had to know, a few people that had learned, and too many for Trowa’s taste that had discovered it. Catherine had been the only one to discover it that didn’t turn into a total disaster. He should have expected it to happen, of course. During Operation Meteor, while he was using the circus as cover, they had lived in very close quarter together. Shared living space, shared bathroom. That didn’t mean it hadn’t terrified him completely when Catherine stumbled in on him dressing after an after-show shower one night. Trowa hadn’t thought he was capable of terror any more at that point, that he had managed to shove all the feelings down. But seeing Catherine in the doorway as he dressed, seeing her staring at him naked and exposed had sent a horrible familiar chill through him. In that moment, he was sure it was all over. She was going to scream, throw him out, call him a hundred thousand things he had heard before as she shrieked. She was going to get the entire circus’ attention and then. And then.

Trowa had expected her to reject him entirely. He had not expected her to close the door quietly behind her, after she had asked to come in, and wrap a towel around his shoulder. He hadn’t expected her to hug him. He hadn’t expected her to help. But she had and she still did. Catherine always helped, and her kindness never ceased to amaze him.

Dinner finished and the table set finally, they ate together. Catherine had long since known about Trowa’s preferences, so there was always enough (sometimes too much) for him to eat. He knew that it didn’t put her out of her routine too much either. Considering her work, Catherine was always making sure she got plenty of nutrients and carbs. She kept the traditional proteins well away from his side of the table. Trowa spent most of the meal the same way he had spent the prep time, listening quietly to her circus news. It wasn’t long into dinner that Trowa once again felt mostly relaxed, and then that sort of pleasantly numb that came with a good meal.

“Delicious,” Catherine sighed, setting down her glass. “Sometimes I do impress myself, but I had good help today.” Trowa smiled slightly. “Dishes and bed?”

“Sounds good.”

The dishes and leftovers didn’t take nearly as long to clear away as the cooking had. Once everything was in Tupperware or plastic, Catherine shooed him away to get ready for bed, assuring him that she was perfectly capable of finishing. Trowa nodded and headed into the bathroom again. He stepped out in a short while, teeth and hair brushed and dressed in warm, dark pajamas. His binder was safely packed away. It was still uncomfortable, feeling fabric against his chest, but Trowa could ignore it most days.

Catherine looked up from where she had just finished making up the couch with pillows and blankets. “Well, at least you don’t sleep in it. That’s a start.”

Trowa fought back a face. “I’m not that stupid.” If his bedroom door didn’t have a lock, Trowa was damn certain he’d sleep in it.

“I know, I know but you are stubborn and I worry, you know that.” She fluffed one of the pillows again before coming over and kissing his cheek. “Good night Trowa.”

Trowa watched her turn back to the couch and turn down a blanket. He sighed. “Catherine.”

“Yes?”

“Go sleep in your own bed.”

“You’re the guest, you get the bed. Besides you know the couch is awful. It’ll kill your back.”

“Maybe, but I’m not the one with a show. You think a sore back is going to improve your aim?”

Catherine swatted at him. “Smartass.”

“Bed.”

“But Trowa—”

“No.”

Catherine threw him an annoyed look but sighed, throwing her hands up. “Fine, be that. Make me a terrible host.”

Trowa smiled slightly. “Good night Catherine.” She smiled back and hugged him. Trowa bit back a grimace as the fabric pressed against him again.

“Sleep well.”

He waited until Catherine had gone into her room and closed the door before turning off the main light and sitting down on the couch. The faint light under the door finally clicked off as she got into bed. Then there was only darkness and the storm. Trowa moved carefully, tugging the blankets out from under him and tucking them around himself before stretching out. The old couch sagged under his weight, and he could already feel what had to be a very long bar poking him all the way down his spine. He shifted, and it didn’t get much better.

Tomorrow, I’m sleeping on the floor.

As uncomfortable as it was, Trowa somehow managed to fall asleep. It must have been a mix of the ride and the adrenaline, the food and the rain because he ended up sleeping deeply enough to dream. Trowa didn’t remember what it was about this time, but he woke up suddenly, the breath stuck in his throat. He stared at the ceiling in silent terror, forgetting where he was. The fear clamped down on his throat.

Across the room, there was a small noise. Trowa snapped his head towards it. The light under the door was back on. The trailer and everything that came with it clicked back in his head, and then the light clicked off. Trowa sighed and laid his head back. He ran a hand through his hair before letting his hand fall from the couch. His fingers brushed something warm and smooth. Frowning, Trowa sat up a bit. There was a small lamp on the narrow cylinder Catherine called a side table. Trowa clicked it on. Next to the couch was a mug of tea and a book, just in reach. 

Catherine had taught him the trick, although Trowa didn’t use it much now. Sometimes, she said, you just needed something warm and a page from a good book. It didn’t always work, but it had worked enough that Trowa had kept a book near his pillow when he lived here during the war. Trowa sighed. He must have been particularly loud, tossing in his sleep, or worse groaning. She wouldn’t mention in the morning though. But Trowa would thank her. Sitting up a bit, Trowa picked up the book and mug. Balancing the book on his knees, Trowa sipped the tea and opened to the first page. He didn’t remember reading this one, but something new could be useful.

He had forgotten how effective a warm drink and a book could be. As Trowa’s eyelids grew heavy, and he managed to slid down onto the couch and put the mug down without spilling it, he decided to bring the trick back with him to the house. 

Trowa slept clear through to morning, when he shifted and book slid off his chest. It landed with a thump on the floor, startling him awake. Trowa looked up at the ceiling, bright with sunlight coming through the blinds of the trailer. He sighed, yawned and stretched before sitting up. The muscles in his back screamed in protest. No matter how good the sleep remedy, it didn’t make the couch any softer. Tonight he was definitely sleeping on the floor.

Catherine wasn’t awake yet, or at least she hadn’t come out of the bedroom. He listened and caught the faint sound of her breathing and shifting. She’d be getting up soon. It was just around the time that the troupe started for the day; he could hear some activity outside already. Trowa stood carefully, taking the cold tea mug over to the counter. He dumped it out and then paused. He could get dressed now, but he had moved his bag into the bedroom last night. Catherine deserved to get as much sleep as she could get. Trowa nodded to himself and started to rummage around in the cabinets.

When Catherine came out of her room a little later, already dressed for the day and brushing her hair, Trowa had almost finished breakfast. She stopped and stared as Trowa set a full cup of coffee her place with the sugar bowl.

“Good morning, Catherine.”

“Good morning. What’s this?”

“Breakfast. Thank you for the tea.”

Catherine smiled. “You’re welcome. I’m glad it helped. I didn’t know you could cook.”

“It’s a somewhat new skill,” Trowa said, shrugging. Although he wouldn’t really call oatmeal, toast, and fruit “cooking.” “I thought you’d like something to eat when you got up.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” she said, crossing the room. Catherine kissed his temple. “Thank you Trowa.”

“Of course.”

Breakfast took less time than dinner had, but that was normal. The days had always started early when he still lived here. There was practice, of course, but there was also a thousand other jobs and errands that needed doing to keep the circus running. Every member of the troupe pulled their weight however they could; he assumed that hadn’t changed so he wasn’t surprised that Catherine ate with unusual vigor. Trowa finished first but only because he had eaten less. He excused himself while she finished to change for the day.

Catherine didn’t say anything when he came back in jeans and a turtleneck. She frowned slightly, which meant that she knew, but Trowa appreciated her keeping the comment to herself. She helped him clean up the table and make quick work of the dishes.

“Alright then, how about we go make the rounds? Say hello and then we can get started? I’m not sure what kind of vacation you were expecting but there’s still plenty of work to do, and we could always use another set of hands.”

Trowa dried his hands off on a dishtowel. “I was planning on helping, regardless of what you said. You do have all those ‘guest’ rules after all.” She laughed and swatted at him.

“Guest rules don’t apply when there’s work to be done. But catching up first.”

Trowa tugged on his boots, which had dried thankfully, and followed her out into the cold, bright morning. There was a thick layer of frost of the grounds, left over from the rain and then the hard chill of the late night. The air smelled astoundingly fresh and clean. Underneath it, though, were the familiar smells of hay and feed, animal fur and human sweat, tent canvas and well-kept machinery. Trowa breathed deeply until his head started to spin.

“Missed it,” Catherine asked after she let him soak it in for a minute.

He turned towards her nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well let’s go get you reacquainted.”

The morning went by without much incident. Trowa followed Catherine around the grounds, familiarizing himself again with the place and the people that he had once worked with. There were faces he remember that were no longer there—“Rene went and got married, can you believe it? The horse riding is never going to be the same but she was so happy, and she’s already expecting,” Catherine explained. And “Mikhail got word from his mother that his uncle isn’t doing well. He headed back home to help with the farm and take his place rebuilding the city.”—and there were faces he had not met before. But most of the people that Trowa remembered were still there, and oddly enough they seemed pleased to see him. No, not pleased. Happy. Sophie, the resident contortionist, squealed and nearly knocked him over in a tackle hug. Manuel, the lion tamer and head keeper for the animals, shook his hand warmly and told him in no uncertain terms that he hoped he stayed. Apparently no one had quite the knack with animals like Trowa. Even Viola the magician and “mistress of sleight of hand” was at least pleasant to him. That surprised him, since Trowa had always been able to see through tricks and had never quite learned not to point it out to her. 

Even more surprising was the fact that the clowns had missed him. Trowa may have dressed like a clown, but he had certainly never performed nor acted like one. He was an acrobat and a daredevil in the ring, and admittedly stand offish outside of it. They never really spoke before, beyond business matters, but when Catherine brought Trowa to see them after a brief lunch in the trailer, they were all excited. It wasn’t until the third one was shaking his hand that Trowa even remembered them. They looked quite different without their makeup.

“It’s been quiet without you here,” one of them told Trowa after shaking his hand.

“Unfortunately, it’s just a short visit,” Catherine said. “He’s leaving Monday.”

“Really? Damn, that’s a shame.”

Trowa had not been expecting that. “It is?”

“We’re just not as popular without you,” he laughed. “Sure we still get good laughs, but everyone seemed more into our antics when you were still here, scaring the shit out of them with knives and lions. We were good stress relief. They like us still, but they don’t love us like they used to. Oh well.”

He had never even considered it, that they could have benefited from his different style of performance. Trowa swallowed. Before he could think of anything to say, they smiled and said their goodbyes, hurrying off to another one of the tents. Trowa barely managed to wave. 

Catherine patted his shoulder. “Come help me carry some crates to the animal cages.”

“Coming.”

There weren’t many crates to carry, but they were on the heavier side. Despite Catherine’s protests, Trowa managed to stake two of them and carry them, leaving just one for her. He could hear her grumbling behind his back and he decided never to mention how much the two crates hurt his shoulders and sore back. Inside the animal tent, the air was warm and musty, full of the smells of hay, feed, and animal heat. The animals, noticing visitors, chittered and grunted and growled. Soon though, they quieted. Trowa set down the crates down along the side with the other crates. As he stood, Trowa felt it: a deep, intense stare. He turned and saw a pair of dark golden eyes across the tent. 

The lion had been tracking his movements since he came in, with a strange intensity that was both wary and oddly welcoming.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it,” Trowa murmured. He walked towards the large cage, slow and cautious. Respectful. The lion watched him. As he neared, Trowa noticed the tension in the lion’s body and he had a sense that the lion was not all pleased to see him. Recognizing it, Trowa stopped just outside the cage and knelt. Just like he had years ago. He stuck a hand between the bars.

The lion didn’t roar and snarl as it did the first time they had met. Instead, he stared at Trowa, silent and unmoving. Trowa had a brief, unnerving moment where he remembered that the lion’s paw was just larger than his face, and that his claws could easily tear through his skin. Honestly Trowa couldn’t blame him. So when the lion huffed and moved forward, Trowa braced himself. 

The lion shoved his head against Trowa’s hand and started to rub. Trowa smiled and ran his fingers through the coarse mane. 

Over his shoulder, Manuel sighed. “He always did like you best. I piss him off, he growls at me for days. You skip off, and you get to scratch his head.”

Catherine chuckled. “Trowa’s always been good with animals.”

“I’m lucky I’m not out of a job.”

“I’d never take it from you,” Trowa assured him quietly. His fingers smoothed out the lion’s mane, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling as the lion let out a low rumbling purr and closed his eyes.

This was, without a doubt, the reunion Trowa had been looking forward to.

Trowa spent most of the afternoon in the animal tent; he’d always felt the most comfortable here, beside with Catherine, and they always needed extra hands. So while handlers came and went with the animals for last minute practice and then show prep, Trowa took care of the area. He sorted the remaining crates, made logs of the supplies, and tended to the animals that wouldn’t be in the show tonight for one reason or another. The lion watched him through it all, lifting his head to growl at some of the hands that came in and lifting it for scratches when Trowa neared him.

Eventually, Trowa reached the last box. Near the bottom of it, underneath some spare canvas that they used to patch the tents in emergencies, Trowa found it. His old costume. It smelled a little musty from long storage, and the colors might have faded a little, but it was still in good shape. Trowa picked it up carefully and set it on his lap. Wrapped up in the shirt, Trowa found the mask. It looked better than the rest, since it had been protected. Trowa ran his fingers over the smooth white surface, tracing the outline of the purple cross. Taking a slow breath, Trowa turned it over and lifted it to his face. He could almost hear the laughter and cheers and applause of an awed crowd.

“You miss it.” Catherine’s voice startled him. He dropped the mask back into the box as he scuttled back in surprise. Smiling, Catherine crouched down beside him. She was already dressed for the show. She picked up the half-mask. “Oh here’s where it went. I’ve been trying to keep it in the trailer, but the last move was quick and the boxes got a little mixed up.”

“I, I just found it.”

“I noticed. So are you going to answer my question?”

He was quiet for a moment, looking down at the box and the costume and the mask. Finally, he nodded. “I do.”

Catherine nodded as well. She handed the mask to him and kissed his cheek. “The show’s going to start soon. Why don’t you watch?”

“I’ll watch from the side.”

“If you think it’ll be a better show,” she said smiling. Standing, Catherine brushed off her costume and held out a hand. Trowa took it and stood. He scratched the lion’s head once more before following Catherine out to the main tent, the mask tucked under his arm.

Trowa watched the show from the performers’ entrance, leaning against one of the support poles in the shadows to keep from being noticed. The circus had always been immensely popular, and it still was judging from the crowd’s size and enthusiasm. The noises and the sights were exactly how he remembered it, minus a few familiar faces. Trowa watched, small smile widening and his grip tightening around the mask, as the crowd laughed and cheered and gasped their way through act after act. Catherine’s knife throwing act was the most thrilling, of course, just passing the trapeze artists. The total fear on her new target’s face probably helped.

Sighing, Trowa laid his head against the pole, letting the circus envelope his senses. He closed his eyes, hugging the mask close to his chest. The children’s excited chatter. The startled gasps as lions roared and daring tricks were landed without a hitch. Riotous laughter. It was all so familiar, so perfect.

In the shadows, Trowa pressed the mask to his face as he watched the final act. If he had stayed, he’d be going on right around now, Catherine’s knife throwing act pushed back to the penultimate performance, just after he had flipped from the tight rope and rode, handstand style, around the ring on the lion’s back. If he had stayed, they’d be cheering.

Wearing the mask, he wondered why he left.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trowa gets involved in an operation

“Are you even listening to me?” Duo’s voice finally registered with him, although the sharp rap over the head with another file also helped it. Trowa blinked. He glanced down at his work, and then around the room to reorient himself. The office. Piles of paperwork and reports. A ledger with his notes. Duo.

That’s right. It had already been a week. A long, miserable week.

Trowa bit back the urge to sigh and shake his head as he looked back at Duo, who was lounging against the side of Trowa’s desk with his arms crossed. He had a strained, irritated frown that was trying so very hard not to turn into a smile. He tapped the file he had smacked Trowa with against his thigh.

“Welcome back to earth, space boy.”

Trowa cringed. “You really need to work on better nicknames.”

“Got your attention, though, didn’t it?”

He sighed. “What can I do for you, Duo?”

Duo blinked and then shook his head. “Man, and here I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt. You didn’t hear a word I said.”

“I was working, Duo.” Which was only partially true. Trowa had been working, but as had been happening frequently in the last week, he had gotten distracted. As he worked through the papers and made notes for his patterns, Trowa remembered the circus. It had only been three days, but it had been a blissful three days. He remembered the smells and the sounds, growing fainter with each day away. And he remembered Catherine reminding him that he always had a home there—and if not a home, at least a home away from home. She had even mentioned getting him back into the ring.

It was usually around there that Trowa stopped working and just focused on the memories of the weekend.

“Is paperwork really that interesting,” Duo asked.

“What do you want, Duo?”

“Fine, fine, straight to business.” He leaned over the edge of the desk. “Une’s have an Op meet.”

Trowa paused and then turned in his chair, fixing Duo with an irritated, incredulous stare. He had been at Preventers long enough to know most of the code already; Op meet was the rather crude shorthand for “Operation meeting:” a gathering of selected operatives to discuss all the relevant information and attend to the minute detailing of an upcoming mission. It was standard procedure.

The problem was that Trowa had no place in an Op meet. He was not a field operative, which Duo was damn well aware of. Trowa was, apparently, on permanent desk, working his way through daily mountains of paperwork and turning in what little patterned behaviors he could find. He was stuck in an endless cycle of paperwork, headaches, and dropping self-worth—none of which was helped by having just returned from the circus. That familiar level of activity, that familiar sense of being needed and having a purpose was entirely absent in the Preventer Headquarters. While Trowa tried not to let to get to him, he knew that he had been distant, despondent, and far more irritable with the other agents—and his friends—because of it.

I never thought he could be this fucking thoughtless. 

“Is that right,” Trowa asked. He turned back to his current papers. “Hurry up then, before Une makes an example of you.”

Duo was quiet for a beat. “Trowa.”

“Go on. I’ll just stay here, working on these.” Since apparently that’s all I’m good for here.

“Do you really think I’m that thoughtless,” Duo asked, sounding remarkable hurt. Trowa felt his scowl fade a little.

“I admit, I was starting to wonder,” he muttered. Duo smiled and shook his head, tapping Trowa on the head again. Suddenly, he wasn’t quite so sorry. Instead, Trowa wanted to take the file and shove it up his nose.

“Une wants you in the Op meet, Trowa.”

It took Trowa several seconds to fully process the simple sentence. He wasn’t a field operative. Unless they wanted a record of meeting minutes—which, for security reasons, they never did—there was no reason for him to be there. 

“I’m not a field operative.”

“That’s about to change,” Duo said. Oddly enough, he looked very pleased with himself.

“Why would Une want me in an Op meet?”

Now Duo looked exceedingly pleased with himself. “Une’s finally realized how much of your talent’s she’s wasted for the last five months. Shocking, isn’t it?”

“Uh huh, and when did she decide this?”

“Not long ago, although I might have put in a few good words for you. A few times.”

“I suppose I should be thanking you.”

“Your smile is all the thanks that’s needed.” Duo laughed when Trowa rolled his eyes. “Une’s got something that needs your skills in particular. Not sure exactly which ones she means, but she’s slated you as key. Now come on, or she’s going to scream at us until she’s blue in the face.”

Trowa let Duo tug him up out of his chair and steer him down the aisle, one arm draped over Trowa’s shoulder to steer him. He allowed the contact, if only because he didn’t trust himself not to turn and hightail it back to his desk.

Une needed his skills, although no one seemed to know exactly which one it was. He wasn’t sure if he should be thankful or suspicious.

Duo led the two of them of down to the end of the aisle of desks, towards a door that Trowa had passed a number of times but had never had the chance, or desire, to open. It was entirely unremarkable, the same matte gray as almost every other door in the building. There were no numbers or stenciling to mark it as an Op room, but everyone knew that it was. Duo pushed opened the door and nearly shoved Trowa inside. Trowa did his best not to stumble.

The room itself was of a moderate size and was an odd off-white and gray. The overhead lights hummed softly and lit every corner, which almost made up for the lack of windows. Most of the room was taken up by conference desks, each with three chairs. Only a handful were occupied.

Une stood near a computer module at the front of the room, arms folded over her chest. “So glad you two could finally join us.” The handful of heads turned back towards them. Zechs looked amused. Wufei sniffed in disapproval. Apart from the curious arch of his eyebrow, Heero didn’t seem at all bothered.

“Sorry,” Duo said, “he needed a little convincing.”

Une didn’t seem like she cared. “Sit, the both of you.”

Trowa followed Duo up the center aisle between the tables. The pilots were all here, and one or two agents that Trowa only knew by their desks on the floor. Heero, seated at the front most right table, nodded his head towards the empty chairs on either side of him. Trowa took the one farthest from the aisle.

“Now that everyone’s here,” Une said with a poignant look at Trowa and Duo, “we can get started.” She walked over to the computer module and turned it on before nodding her head towards the door. Someone turned off the lights. 

Une waited for the wall screen to come down and the bright picture from the ceiling projector to focus before speaking. “Fahd Kader.” 

Trowa hadn’t needed the reminded. Once the picture had fully loaded and focused, Trowa recognized the man—and supplied the name—almost instantly. He had watched several of his addresses and interviews with Quatre recently. Kader was a prominent, popular foreign dignitary, descended from nobility in his country that extended back several centuries. If Trowa remembered correctly, Kader was next in line to the throne and the fact didn’t actually mean much to him. The county had, in the last few years, moved towards a democratic monarchy, introducing a parliament and greatly limiting the actual power of the reigning family. Since only a few laws had been put into effect to prevent royal household members from holding office, Kader had managed to secure himself a seat in the parliament, and then a very lucrative and powerful ambassadorship. The whispers were of course foul play, but there was no proof yet.

Despite the fact that the family had a rich history of betrayal, blackmail, and murder.

“So we finally nailing this bastard,” Duo asked. The Preventers had had him at the top of their list for months.

“That’s why you’re all here today.” Une moved the cursor. The initial picture receded up to the left corner to make space for the profile Preventers had already put together. Trowa read it quickly.

Even from the headshot, Trowa could tell that Fahd Kader was a physically imposing man. The profile listed him as six foot, but Trowa thought that it had be six foot two, at least. Cameras were good at adding or decreasing stature with angles, but not that good. He seemed to be mostly muscle with broad shoulders and powerful arms and neck. In the profile photo, Kader’s brown-black hair was slicked back, but Trowa had seen interviews product free; while it was short, it was slightly curly. It never seemed to cover his deep, dark eyes though.

Trowa blinked. It was easy to see why the twenty-nine-year-old had done so well. Imposing enough for the scared, attractive enough for the curious. And that was not to include his tongue, glib and silver and talented. If Kader’s smirk didn’t smack Trowa as being entirely sadistic and arrogant, he might have found him attractive. He might.

“Kader’s gotten popular as of late,” Une said simply. There was a low muttering of agreement. “And popular despite accusations of how he secured his position and maintained. He’s been described as a gifted, passionate speaker; a philanthropist; an unwavering bulwark for the oppressed; and a realistic pacifist. He’s platformed most recently for renewed environmental conservation efforts on Earth, more support for the rebuilding of terrorized areas, and firmer punishments for war crimes.”

“Sounded like Peacecraft right until that last one,” someone muttered.

“I don’t care about his politics,” Une said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s his private life that concerns me.”

“Kader has a private life,” Duo asked. “I thought his life was politics.”

“It is, but he splits it between two sets,” Une said.

The screen ahead of them changed, beginning a long but slow loop of photos and scans of written documents. Each stayed up for several seconds to allow for reading or skimming. Trowa’s eyes narrowed as he went through them. 

“Courtesy of several informers,” Une said. Trowa wondered if any of those informers were Quatre. “On official papers and on the media, Fahd Kader is a perfect people’s politician. Behind that, though, he keeps very different company and operates under very different stands. We have confirmed ties to Earth and colony black markets, focusing primarily on weapons, war technology, and mercenaries.”

Trowa watched the continuous loop, listening only partially to Une as he read. His mind, already keyed towards patterns, found several of them quickly. Particularly in the pictures. Tables, always tables. Plush armchairs and well lacquered wood chairs. Low lighting. In one photo, there was part of what might have been a stage. A few pictures had people who looked like they were wearing a high-class, semi-revealing uniform. Trowa blinked when he noticed a naked leg wearing a stiletto heel.

These were all taken in a club of some kind. Probably a gentlemen’s club. Maybe a high class strip club. He scowled. Coupled with the confirmed dealings he had with the black market, there were only a few types of meetings that Kader could be conducting in a place like that. None of them were good.

“Unfortunately, most of this documentation is not admissible. There’s also no actual proof of money being exchanged. He’s been very good at minimizing his paper trail. And he’s very good at manipulating the media. All it’ll take is the right word to the medium and the right accusation of doctoring, and we’ll be crushed.”

“So what do we need,” Heero asked.

“Proof of exchange. Money, paper trail, audio. And it needs to be done in house, by an agent, not an informer.”

“You’re green-lighting a sting,” Duo said.

Une nodded towards the back again and the lights flicked on. “I am. I want this man in one of our holding cells, assets cut off, spilling everything he can to us to keep him from lethal injection. And I want it done quick and quiet. The public does not need to know how close we keep getting to another war.”

“What’s the time frame,” Wufei asked.

“It’s a hit and run. Week for prep and securing a space on the inside. One of our informants is on that.”

Zechs was still frowning at the photographs looping on the screen. “Where are we staging this.”

“I’m sure most of you noticed that the location in most of these photos is the same.” There was a murmur of assent. “Most of these meetings take place in a very exclusive, very underground club. The club is extremely good at flying under the radar, and at dropping off completely if its location is compromised. Our insider, though, has a good foothold there, so they will secure us a temporary position for the agent going in.”

“So there’s only one going in?” That was unusual. Most operations used two. It made exposure a little more likely, but it was also safer for the agents involved. One was the primary, the other was an additional point of contact and protection.

Une nodded. “The rest are on prep and surveillance.”

“So who’s going in,” Zechs asked. There was a shrewdness in his tone that told Trowa he already had an idea. And so did Trowa.   
Une looked around the room. Lingering for a half a second longer on Trowa than the other Preventer agents present. He stiffened and straightened a little bit. 

“Trowa Barton will be going in.” It made sense. After all, Trowa had hidden among the enemy before. Several times.

There were stares, of course. Trowa felt them almost immediately and wasn’t particularly surprised. A first-time field agent going undercover, solo, to collect highly sensitive information on a dangerous target. The decision was unprecedented, even if Trowa was a Gundam pilot with experience that rivaled most of the agents in the building. If anyone objected, though, they kept that to themselves.

“What’s my role,” Trowa asked, immediately beginning to make notes and build a foundation based on the clues he had gotten from photographs. A bartender or waiter would be easy; he knew the proper etiquette for a place like that. 

“Your role is specific, and the risk of discovery is high,” Une warned. “But I have faith in your abilities.”  
Trowa felt a small knot of tension building in his stomach. Une normally didn’t side-step direct questions.

“Understood, although I don’t think a bartender or waiter will be too challenging.”

Une shifted her weight, a minute movement of her hips as she moved her center of balance from one foot to another. The knot in Trowa’s stomach tightened. “Your role is more difficult than that. We considered both of those, but unfortunately staff are not permitted to fraternize with the patrons. At least not in the way that we need. Therefore, you’ll be going under as a temporary entertainer.”

Trowa’s jaw would have hit the desk if he hadn’t taught himself to keep a tight hold on his emotions. And although he hadn’t done too well with it last weekend, he somehow managed to keep his surprise and horror off his face. Une couldn’t be serious. She just couldn’t. Trowa was not about to infiltrate a gentlemen’s club with possible terrorist affiliations as some kind of exotic dancer. A female exotic dancer because in none of the pictures had there been any suggestion that these were men that enjoyed the company of their own sex. He just wasn’t, and Une couldn’t be asking him to do it. She couldn’t ask him to parade himself around like a woman.

Except she could, she was, and it would actually be relatively easy for him to do. Trowa bit the inside of his cheek.

He kept himself in check, with a little difficulty, as Une continued with the rest of the assignments and instructions for the operation. Trowa barely processed more than two words at a time. He was too focused on the tight sickening feeling in his stomach and the eyes that had once against turned on him. He breathed deeply through his nose, keeping himself as calm as he could as Une closed the meeting and dismissed them. When agents started to stand and leave, Trowa finally crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

Une watched him, glancing between him and the door. She at least had the decency to look apologetic at him. She glared at the door and then huffed, hands on her hips. Trowa glanced back. Heero and the others waited by the door. Duo’s hand was hovering over the handle. He looked torn between being a good agent and being a good friend. Finally, Une sighed and waved them back. The four of them hurried back and crowded around Trowa’s chair.

“You’re surprised,” Une said to Trowa.

“That’s something of an understatement.”

She ran a hand through her hair. “You weren’t my first choice, Trowa. You were my only choice.”

“All the female agents are on maternity leave,” Trowa asked. Duo snorted. Une frowned.

“A handful of them, but that’s not the reason. I don’t have anyone else suitable for this.”

Trowa felt a muscle in his cheek start to twitch. “I don’t think I’m quite as suitable as you think. I’m not a woman.” His stomach rolled as it always did.

“I know that, Trowa.” You don’t know anything. “But you could pass for one with the least amount of effort.”

Trowa frowned. “So you picked me because I’m androgynous.” He could hear the sharpness of fury entering his voice and didn’t do anything to curb it. Somewhere behind him, a hand brushed almost comfortingly against his shoulder.

“That wasn’t the only reason. I know how you work, Trowa. You’re single-minded when it comes to the job. Anything goes as long as it gets the work done, and I need that here. You don’t scare and you don’t back down, and right now I need that in an agent. I need someone that is going to run with this, even begrudgingly, because it’s the job.”

“I suppose now is a bad time to mention that I was thinking of a career change,” Trowa asked. 

“A very bad time.” Une sighed and leaned against the computer console. “I don’t trust any of my other agents for this, certainly not any of the women. They’re well trained. I’ve seen them in their reports and in the field. But none of them have been through a third of what you have. None of them have gone deep cover and gotten out unscathed, especially if something went wrong. You are my best agent for this, you are the one that could get in and out without a hitch.”

The logic was sound, and Trowa hated it.

“There are others with similar experiences to me, in this room actually.”

Une snorted. “Can you imagine what would happen if I sent Duo or Heero in? Or Zechs or Wufei? That’s not a sting, that’s waiving a flag in their faces and shouting ‘here we are, we’re onto you’! These guys are good, but I can’t trust them with this. They don’t have your track record.”

“Well don’t we just feel love,” Duo muttered.

“I’m not happy about it, if that’s what you think,” Une said. “I’d love to give you a couple of mundane operations, get you warmed up to the field again, but that’s not how it worked out. Trowa, I need someone with very specific skills, someone who I can trust to get this done with the least risk of discovery. And that’s you.”

Trowa scowled but was quiet. Une was right, of course. Given his past experiences with infiltration, his combat style and skills, and his admittedly quasi-feminine appearance, he was the best choice. On top of that, as his employer Une was well within her rights to demand this of him. It would be foolish, even ungrateful, to refuse. Especially considering how much he had missed being an active agent.

That didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

“Doesn’t seem like I have much of choice. It is my job,” Trowa said finally.

Une smiled a little. “I knew you’d understand.

“It would have been nice, though, if this situation had been laid out a little clearer in my contract.”

“It is in your contract.” Trowa frowned; he would have remembered reading that little subsection, he was sure of it.

“You know, I don’t remember that in my contract either,” Duo said after a moment.

Une reached behind her and pulled a large binder off from the computer console. She brought over to the table. She stood there for a moment, flipping through the many sheaves of paper before finding the one she was looking for. Une set it down, turned it, and pushed it towards Trowa. The page was covered in paragraphs of the minutest writing.

“Section 12, subsection 6, paragraph 3,” she prompted.

The relevant paragraph was helpful highlighted in yellow. Trowa scanned it, the others leaned over him to read it as well.

“—Furthermore, all Preventer agents understand that many, if not all, operations assigned to them will have attached to them a certain amount of risk, discovery, injury, and/or death. Agents also understand that by the terms ‘risk’ and ‘injury’ the Organization means not only bodily harm but also emotional and mental injury or risk. While illegal acts will never be ordered of them, concerns about personal reputation, embarrassment, or discomfort cannot be cited as plausible reasons for exclusion from operations, unless accompanied by documentation from supervisors, doctors, mental health professionals, or other invested parties. Operations with this definition of risk or discovery include—”

Trowa read down the long list of inclusions that agents couldn’t be exempt from without prior documented approval. Near the end, in pink highlight this time, was a single sentence.

“Infiltration of potential dangerous and/or lewd locales under the guise of someone of the opposing sex (prostitution and other sexual favors excluded).”

“Damn,” Duo breathed. “It really is there.” Heero made a small disapproving noise. Trowa just sighed.

“Then I really don’t have a choice.”

“Not really, no. As you can see, it’s all there, in black and white.”

“Hey,” Duo interrupted, pointing a little further up the inclusion list. “Can you really send agents undercover as mentally unstable patients?”

Une yanked the binder back. “If the need arises, yes. It’s in your contract, and I’ll remember your interest in it, Maxwell.”

“No interest whatsoever, ma’am,” Duo backpedaled.

“There is,” Trowa said finally, “one more thing.” Une looked at him, head tilted to the side.

“Which is?”

Trowa paused for a moment, feeling the back of his neck warm with slight embarrassment. “I’m going under as an entertainer. A dancer, I’m assuming.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t dance.”

Une waved a hand dismissively. “Not a problem. I did assume that dancing wasn’t in your repertoire, so I found someone to teach you. I’ll introduce you to her.”

“Her?”

“Yes, Duo, her. Now I do believe you four have work to do.”

Trowa watched the four of them file rather begrudgingly from the room. Heero glanced back at him, as did Wufei, and they both seemed to mouth something that Trowa could only assume was encouragement or condolences. Finally, though, they left and the door clicked closed behind them. Trowa turned back to Une.

“Let’s go meet your instructor, then.” Trowa nodded, rising when she strode past him and to the door. He pushed the chair in out of habit before hurrying after her. As the door closed and he followed her to the elevator, Trowa wondered if his first assignment could have been any worse. He decided not to think about that.

The ride up in the elevator was quiet. Trowa leaned against the back wall. Une punched the number in for the training facilities. Trowa hadn’t been up there since before he had left to see Catherine. There just hadn’t been the time. He did, however, successful looped the tapes shortly after his last visit. He wondered if maintenance ever figured out how the bathroom mirror might have been shattered.

When the elevator shivered and stopped, Trowa followed Une out onto the floor. There were a few events going on, mostly combat classes for new recruits and a couple of advance workshops for the veterans. Trowa paused as he felt a beat through the floor. His ear then picked up noise coming from one of the side rooms. Une headed towards it. As they neared, Trowa realized it was music. Heavy, pulsating music.

Une pushed open the door. The side room was small, enough for a class of ten agents or so too move with ease. Its walls and ceiling were the same color as the outer room. There were no windows, and instead of tables or mats, there were ceiling-to-floor mirrors covering three walls. In the center of the room, facing the mirror, was a woman. She was standing near some folding chairs. Trowa had never seen her before, but he found himself quickly fascinated by the way she moved her head and shoulder to the beat coming from the stereo. She had her lips around the mouth of a water bottle as she did something of a half step.

“The room is to your liking,” Une called. The other woman started. She turned, lips around the bottle still.

Trowa had seen a lot, first as a mercenary and then as a pilot, but this woman was a first. He did his best not to stare at the boyishly-short purple and green hair that fell stylishly-messy into her eyes. It would stand out starkly on its own, but with her dark skin it looked particularly bright. Her jeans, torn to almost uselessness, sat low on her hips, baring long, slender legs. Her shirt was just as torn as her jeans, the strips gathered and tied just beneath her breasts. There was an intricate tattoo along her stomach that disappeared under the shirt. The woman set the bottle down on one of the chairs and smiled.

“Place is perfect, Ms. Une. We’ll get plenty of work done here.” She shifted her gaze and eyed Trowa with unmasked interest. “This him?”

Une nodded. “Trowa, this is Lena Crawford. Lena, this is Trowa Barton.” Lena smiled more and, after making sure her hand was perfectly clean by wiping it on her jeans, offered him her hand.

“ ’Sup? Pleasure to finally meet you.” 

Trowa looked at it for a moment before grasping it in a relatively friendly handshake. “Likewise,” he said. He was only slightly surprised by the strength of her handshake. Lena seemed too slender for that sort of strength, but he knew what he looked like himself. It would be foolish to underestimate her. That was why he was only slightly startled and irritated when Lena yanked him forward and slid his sleeve up to his elbow.

“Good texture,” she said as she examined his forearm. “A little skinny but muscular. I can definitely work with his.”

“He has background in acrobatics and gymnastics,” Une said.

“Yeah? Perfect, he should have good dexterity and balance then. Always the best foundation to have.”

“Can I have that back now,” Trowa asked, twisting it just enough to suggest that he could break her grip himself if she didn’t let go. Lena smirked but let him go. He took a step back.

“So you can teach him,” Une asked.

“Sure. I can teach anyone to dance.”

“In a week,” Trowa asked.

Lena’s smile turned slightly mischievous. “Well you’ll be here from start to quit every day, so yeah. I can break you in in a week.”

Trowa raised an eyebrow and folded his arms. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Well I suppose we could call it ‘training,’ if that makes you feel better.”

“I’d prefer that, yes.”

“Well I can see you two are going to get along splendidly,” Une said, clearly trying not to laugh. “Lena, I leave him in your capable hands. Don’t overwork him.”

“I’ll behave, Ms. Une, don’t worry.” Une smiled some at Trowa before leaving them alone. She shut the door behind her. 

Lena headed over to the stereo and turned it down before turning back to him. “Don’t look so excited.”

“I don’t exactly find the idea of dancing for nine hours a day for a week all that fun. No offense.”

“Wow, no, none taken. Oh, F. Y. I., that was sarcasm, darling.”

“Don’t call me darling.” I think I’m starting to miss the paperwork.

“So let’s see what we’re working with,” Lena said. She walked around him slowly. Trowa moved with her, spinning in a slow circle to keep her in sight. She didn’t seem to mind. “Yeah, yeah you’ll do just fine. Just not in those clothes.”

“What’s wrong with them?” It was the standard uniform; if Une didn’t find anything wrong with, why should she?

“You can’t dance in that. Do you own sweatpants? Sweatpants, sweatshirt, yoga pants? Loose clothing for exercise? Hell, even cut up jeans will do in a pinch, I guess.”

Trowa thought about it. “I think I’ve got something at home.”

“Great! Go home and get them. Oh, tights would be perfect. Do you have tights?”

“No.”

“Well you might think about investing in a pair or two.”

Trowa raised an eyebrow. “Are they necessary.”

“Not exactly, no.”

“Then I’m not investing in anything.”

“Fine by me, darling. Some former gymnast you are.”

“Acrobat,” Trowa snapped over his shoulder as he headed towards the door. He could hear her chuckle.

The ride home to their empty and moderately warm house was quick. Trowa paused just inside the door, drawing strength for the next several hours and marveling about odd it was to be home without them. As Trowa passed the dining room table, he saw Quatre’s coffee cup. He hadn’t even been able to finish breakfast before he got a call to come in for a meeting. Although none of them had said anything besides goodbye, Trowa knew that he and Heero had started to wonder if there was something more to what Duo said about Quatre’s work.

There was nothing to do about it, though, except collect the mug and dump the cold coffee down the drain.

Trowa spent most of the time tearing apart his room in the mostly orderly fashion he could manage. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to find anything “suitable.” How the loose jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt ended up under his bed, he had no idea. They were a little wrinkled, but they were clean. Trowa shook them out before tossing them in the duffle bag. He paused, looking from the messy piles of flung clothes to the clock. She could wait another ten minutes while Trowa straightened up. He hated the idea of coming home to a ransacked bedroom.

He was throwing black dress pants into the bottom dresser drawer when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Trowa straightened, looked hard at his profile, and side. He could almost hear Catherine scolding him. How angry would she be if she knew? How much work did it really take to learn to dance? How much breath did he really need? Did he want to be, as Catherine put it, safe or sorry?

Trowa generally chose “sorry,” but after the last time, he wasn’t sure he could handle “sorry” again.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. There wasn’t much time, but there was also too much risk. Sighing, he tugged at the small buttons of his uniform shirt. Just a little looser, that would be enough. Tossing the shirt on the bed, Trowa eyed the binder. He shifted slightly so he could see the snaps running along the side. Over the year, he had gotten better at putting on the binder, but he was used to his usual setting. Adjusting it and keeping it even might be difficult. Trowa worked his way down the side carefully but quickly, loosening each snap by one. The binder loosened, the tight material easing from around his chest. Almost immediately his lungs relaxed. Breathing was easier. He was tempted to loosen it more.

Trowa dropped his hands. Snatching up his shirt, he yanked it back on and buttoned it quickly. He grabbed the duffle bag, cursing under his breath as he left the house. Catherine had gotten to him; she would be so pleased to know that. It wasn’t fair.

He was calmer when he walked back out of the elevator thirty minutes later, and much colder. Driving without his coat had been bracing, but probably not one of his better ideas.

A heavy beat was pulsating through the training facility floor again. It was faster this time, though. Trowa followed it to the door, listening as the techno music grew clearer and uncomfortably louder with each step. He pushed open the door, stepped inside, and stopped. Lena was doing…something. It took Trowa a moment to realize that she wasn’t convulsing. Her popping and twitching joints and limbs were following the rhythm of the music, locking and releasing with astounding fluidity. The more he watched, the less painful it seemed. Every movement was planned, controlled. It was elegant. Beautiful.

He was starting to like this “dancing” idea.

Trowa shut the door. Lena caught the movement in the mirror and nearly tripped out of spin.

“Shit, give a girl a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Sorry,” he said. Trowa set the duffle bag on an empty chair. Lena shrugged it off, skipped over to the stereo and turned it down to a tolerable level. Trowa frowned when he noticed his ears were ringing.

“So what’d you bring?” Lena leaned uncomfortable close to the bag and Trowa had the distinct impression that she had no qualms with rooting through it herself. Trowa unzipped it and pulled out the loose jeans and shirt for her inspection.

“I suppose these will do, but tights would have been better.”

“I don’t own tights.”

“Yeah, yeah you said. Go get changed.”

Yes, Trowa was definitely starting to miss the paperwork.

Lena greeted him with a low whistle when Trowa returned a few minutes later, and quite suddenly Trowa wished he had gone with the sweatpants. She eyed him without shame, taking in the leaner lines of his legs that were now nicely displayed in the jeans. They fit him well, despite their looseness, sitting low on his lips without the help of a belt. And while the long-sleeved t-shirt was loose enough to hide the edges of the binder, it still gave her a much better sense of his curves than Trowa preferred. 

“Nice, very nice,” she said, grinning as she eyed his thighs. “We could actually pull this off.”

“I doubt that,” he muttered.

“Nah I’m serious. You’ve got a nice body, good muscle tone and overall shape.”

Trowa tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. His voice was thankfully even when he spoke. “Well, I don’t dance. I’m not even sure I can.”

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit, it’s not even funny.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

“Look, darling. It’s not that you can’t dance. Everyone can dance. There are just some dance that you can’t do.”

Trowa blinked slowly. “I don’t follow.”

Lena sighed. “Everyone can do at least one kind of dance, regardless of who you are or what might be ‘wrong’ with you. The thing is, no one can do every dance. Take me for example,” she said, spinning with a flourish. “I can salsa, mambo, tango. I can do jazz, hip hop, pop-n-lock. If I really try, I can even ballroom. But you know what? I can’t do ballet. I can’t do Irish step dancing. Scottish neither. I can’t clog, can’t break dance. Like, I know the moves. I see how they work. My body just can’t do them yet. If I spent a lot of time on them, I could learn them, but it’ll never be as easy as the others. I’ll never quite ‘get’ it. But you see? There are dances I can do and dances I can’t do. It’s the same with everyone.”

Trowa blinked again. “Uh-huh.”

“I mean, even handicapped people can dance. You ever see a person in a wheelchair dance? It’s fucking amazing, okay? So don’t give me any ‘I can’t dance’ crap. You can dance. We just need to figure out what you’re best at.”  
I  
I don’t think I can do anything, and I’m not all that sure I want to. It was his job, however, so Trowa did have to make an honest attempt. He sighed and nodded finally. Lena seemed to accept that.

“Alright,” she said, looking him over critically. “With your body type, I bet you’d be a great ballet dancer, but we don’t have that kind of time. That’s not the kind of dancing they want to see, anyway. No, we’re still with modern stuff. Hip-hop, pop-n-lock, maybe a little belly dancing and lap dancing.”

Trowa’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Okay, okay, no lap dancing. Damn you’ve got a glare, I think the temp in her just dropped,” Lena laughed. “We’ll start with the basics and go from there.” She walked back over to the stereo, waving Trowa to move to the center of the room. When Lena turned the music up, Trowa swore he could see the mirrors vibrate with the heavy, loud beat. Lena didn’t seem to notice or care as she walked to him.

“Alright,” she said, and he could barely hear her. “Now repeat after me, and we’ll see how you do. Who knows, you might get the basics down before quitting time.”

Lena’s smile was wide and mischievous. Trowa sighed and quickly noted that that was a smile of hard things to come.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trowa prepares for his mission.

“You’re home early,” Quatre said as he pulled off his coat and hung it up.  Trowa, biting back a yawn, turned and looked back at him through the barely-lit house.  He had only just gotten home himself and had just taken off his coat and shoes while turning on some lights when Quatre came in.           

“Not really,” Trowa said, shrugging.           

“Well, earlier than usual,” Quatre returned with a smile.  Setting his keys on the small side table by the door, Quatre toed out of his shoes.  He walked towards Trowa then, a look of worry crossing his face.  “You okay?  You look so tired.”           

_So much for hiding it._ “I’m alright.”           

Actually, Trowa was exhausted.  If Duo thought Une was a slave driver, Trowa hoped that he never had to work with Lena.   The woman loved dancing with a fervor that was nearly religious, and she handled mistakes with all of the elegance of a guard dog.  He put one limb just a little out of place, he slid one foot an inch too far, and she was on.  Usually verbally, occasionally physically, twisting him around into the “proper step” and making him hold it while she lectured him.  Then she made him repeat it.  Twice.           

The best part was that she hadn’t grabbed him anywhere that she’d be able to feel the binder.  The worst part was that he was starting to appreciate the brutal teaching method.           

Dancing wasn’t that different from acrobatics or gymnastics.  The muscles groups that the three types of body movements used overlapped.  Trowa prided himself on his dexterity, his flexibility, and his skill when it came to flips and cartwheels, so he found himself getting frustrated when he missed a step.  Or worse, tripped.  Trowa hated feeling like he had two left feet, and he had for most of the day.  Near the end, though, Trowa had started to get it.  At the very least, he had stopped completely embarrassing himself.  Lena had even said he was one of the quickest studies she had seen.  Apart from herself, of course.           

He had exhausted himself doing it, though.

Quatre smiled some.  “Hard day, huh?”           

“No worse than usual.  I’m sure yours was harder.”           

Quatre gave him an odd, almost mischievous smile before heading towards the kitchen.  “I don’t know.  I wasn’t the one dancing all day.”           

Trowa blinked and then scowled.   _I’ll kill him_.  “Heero called you.”            

“Duo actually,” Quatre called.   _I’ll kill him slowly._ “He wanted to let me know that he and Heero were staying late and that I shouldn’t worry about making them dinner.  I admit, I was curious and asked him what operation they were on now.  He said he and Heero were working on a crucial sting, and that you had been tagged as the undercover agent.”           

Trowa leaned against the wall in the kitchen and watched Quatre pour himself some juice.  “And?”           

“And what,” Quatre asked innocently.  Trowa sighed and shifted, grimacing as his leg muscles protested.           

“And what did he say?  He said something, Duo always does.”           

Quatre took a sip before returning the juice carton to the refrigerator.  “He said you were going as, well.”           

“You can say it.  I’m going as a woman.”           

“Well, yes.  That.”           

“How long did he laugh?”           

“He didn’t laugh,” Quatre defended.  Trowa raised an eyebrow elegantly until Quatre caved.  He hid his mouth behind the glass.  “Much.”           

Trowa sighed and went to get himself a glass.  Quatre hopped up on the counter and sipped his juice while Trowa poured himself water from the pitcher in the refrigerator.           

“It’s only one night though, right?  No big deal.”

“No big deal,” Trowa agreed, putting all the certainty that he didn’t feel into the words.  “I can handle one night, as long as Duo doesn’t laugh in my face.  Then there’s not going to be a night because I’ll be in jail.”           

“He’ll behave.”           

“I’m sure.  Besides, I don’t really have a choice.  It’s all part of the job, apparently.”           

Quatre nodded once.  “Do you think you’ll like it better,” he asked after a moment.  Trowa blinked and stared at him over the rim of his glass as he sipped it.  Like what, exactly?  Being a woman?  Dressing in a skirt and god knows what else and dancing in front of strangers?  Being forced to acknowledge and use those parts that he wished didn’t exist?  Trowa’s grip tightened.  The glass, though, was thankfully plastic.   Quatre didn’t noticed but he clarified all the same.  “Being back in the field.  Think it’ll be better than sitting at a desk all day?”           

Trowa sighed, loosening his grip.  “Maybe, but I won’t know until it’s done.”           

“True.”  Trowa nodded, Quatre nodded back, and they returned to their drinks in silence.  There was something funny about it, the silence.  Comfortable and uncomfortable all at once.  Dancing was, at the end of the day, enjoyable, and talking to Quatre was even more so.  Trowa had missed having the chance to talk with him like this.  But it all came to pass in the worst possible way, and with too many risks Trowa didn’t want to make.           

Suddenly, Quatre hopped off the counter.  “How about pizza?”           

“What?”           

“It’s just going to be you and me tonight, and I really just don’t want to cook.  So pizza.  We can share it.”           

“Can we now?”           

“I swear, no sausage or pepperoni this time.  Vegetable toppings only.”  Trowa shrugged slightly.  “Come on, it’ll be fun.  We can talk or play cards or something.  Please?”           

They so rarely spent time together, and Quatre so rarely asked him for anything with that tone of voice.  Trowa nodded.  “Pizza sounds good.”           

“Great!  So go change into something comfortable while I call for it.  I’m thinking peppers and broccoli?”

“Maybe half, and you get the other half with what you want.”           

Quatre grinned.  “On it!” Trowa had forgotten how excited Quatre could get over things, even small things.  But he practically skipped to the phone and Trowa couldn’t stop himself from smiling slightly.  He picked up the duffle bag from where he had left it by the couch and took it back to his room.  Trowa slipped into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.  He sighed when he flipped on the overhead lamp.  Yes, straightening up before leaving had definitely been a good idea.  Trowa was too tired for cleaning.           

Rubbing a knot that had started to build in his shoulder, Trowa tossed the duffle bag on the bed.  He had changed before leaving, partly because street wear was against regulations, and partly because he didn’t want to be seen in loose, sweaty clothes.  Trowa unzipped the bag and tugged the dance clothes out.  The jeans were all right, but the shirt was still sweat-damp.  He would have to wash them tonight, or else he would have to tear apart his room again looking for something else to use.  There was time, though, as long as they got into the dryer before bed.  Trowa left the dirty clothes on the duffle bag and undressed.  His dress clothes could go one more day without washing, especially since he was spending the week dancing. Trowa set the folded clothes on the dresser before changing.           

Trowa, in a soft turtle neck and loose pants, took the dirty clothes down to the laundry room in the basement before heading back to the living room.           

Quatre was stretched out on the couch in a pair of pajamas a size too big for him.  He kept pulling on the neck of his shirt as it slid off one shoulder and then the other.  He leaned his head back on the leather as Trowa approached.           

“They said twenty minutes,” Quatre said, sitting up and patting the spot next to him.  Trowa sat down beside him.  “And that was almost ten minutes ago, so it should be here soon.”           

“Alright.”           

“And I got have veggies and half extra cheese so no surprises for you.  Double checked the order, too.”           

“Sounds fine.”              

“I also found a deck of cards in the utility drawer, so I figure we could play something until it gets here.”           

“If you like.”           

“And then we can crack open the beer, get shit-faced, and have wild kinky sex on my leather couch.”           

Trowa’s head turned so fast he pinched a nerve.  Quatre grinned and winked.

“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” he said innocently.  Trowa snorted and rubbed at his sore neck.

“You’re not that cute.”           

“What are you talk about, of course I am.  What do you want to drink?”           

“Anything’s fine,” he muttered.  Quatre smiled and patted his knee before sliding off the couch and heading for the kitchen.  Trowa sank back onto the couch, crossing his arms and pressing them hard into his chest.  Quatre had been joking; of course he had been joking, but it still hurt.  Trowa swallowed down a noise.  He thought he was better than this, over this.  He had made himself before over it because there was just no way.  Quatre was his friend.  His best friend, in a lot of ways.  Someone closer than a brother, and Quatre would never ever look at him that way.  Not now, and certainly not if he knew.   _ Quatre wasn’t serious.  He’d never be serious.  Stop dreaming and stop blushing, damn it. _ __

Trowa managed to look at least mildly relaxed when Quatre came back with two glasses.  “Root beer,” he said smiling.  “A classic.”           

“Thanks.”           

“There are actually a couple of beers.  Duo didn’t finish off his last six pack, so if you wanted one, it’s there.”           

“No thanks.  Duo would bitch for days.”           

Quatre chuckled.  “Good point.”  He handed Trowa a glass before taking a sip of his own soda.  He set down the glass on the coffee table before sinking back into the couch.  From the pocket of his sleep pants, Quatre pulled a deck of cards.  He started shuffling them while Trowa watched from over the rim of his glass.           

“What do you want to play?”           

“I’m not really familiar with cards,” Trowa said.  He preferred chess, even if Duo beat him most of the time.           

“Most of them are really easy,” Quatre said, shuffling the cards over and over as he thought.  “There’s War, which is super easy but it’s long.  I think you’re too smart for Go Fish.  Most of the games I know need a couple more players, stuff like Black Jack and Poker.  Oh!” Quatre grinned.  “We can play Spit.”           

Trowa raised an eyebrow. “Spit?”           

“Yeah it’s pretty simple.  So we’ll split the deck in half and set up five piles in front of you, kind of like you would in solitaire.  All the rest of the cards get put in their own pile that goes between us.  So there will be two, one for me and one for you.  We each take the top card from our pile and flip it over.  Let’s say one is a three and one is ten.  You can go up or down from there.  So like three, four, five, or ten, nine, eight.  It just has to be in order.  You can use either pile to lay down your cards.”           

“Okay, but what if you can’t put anything down?”           

“Well if you can’t then you just sit there and watch me throw down cards and whoop your butt,” Quatre grinned.  “If we both can’t put anything down, we draw new cards from the main piles.”           

“What happens when one of us is out of the cards in front of us?”

“Hit the smaller pile if you can, or just scowl at me when I beat you to it.”           

“You’re not faster than me, Winner.”

“You never played, and I grew up with games like this.  Want to give it a go?”           

Trowa smiled a little at the smug smile Quatre gave him.  “Sure.”           

Quatre leaned forward and shuffled the deck expertly on the coffee table.  Trowa slid off the couch and sat on the floor.  For ease of play.  Quatre cut the deck and counted his out just to be sure.  Trowa hadn’t seen someone count cards like that since watching old casino movies.  He handed over two when Quatre come up short.           

“Alright, now we set them up.”  Trowa watched Quatre for a moment before copying the layout of the cards.  Quatre nodded his approval and then grinned.  “And now, we play.”           

In less than ten minutes, Trowa and Quatre both learned that Trowa was surprisingly good at this game.           

“Remind me never to teach you poker,” Quatre said, throwing a sulky look at his large pile of cards.  Trowa smiled but shrugged innocently as he laid out his last three cards.  Quatre snorted and leaned forward, squaring his shoulders for what was obviously going to be the final round.           

Trowa shifted and waited, watching Quatre’s hand hover over the pile.

Suddenly the doorbell rang.           

“Game called on account of food,” Quatre declared, tossing down the card he had just pulled.  Trowa shook his head but smiled.  He shifted the cards carefully to the corner of the table.           

Quatre paid for the pizza and grabbed napkins and paper plates before coming back.  He set the box down in the empty space.  “Oh but that does smell good,” he groaned.  “One slice or two?” “

Two.”  Quatre handed him the plate before serving himself.  He sat down on the couch with his pizza.  “We definitely need to do this more often.”           

_Just as long as every pizza session doesn’t star with sex teasing._ Trowa leaned back against the couch and took a bite.  It had been a long time though.  A long time when they could just sit like this, with junk food between them.  It was nice.            

Half a pizza later, Quatre had settled down on the couch, nibbling on crust as they watched the news.  Trowa still leaned back against the leather coucb, but he had tucked one of his legs beneath him and balanced his nearly-empty glass on his other knee.  Quatre had long since gotten tired of losing to Trowa, so Trowa had suggested switching to television; after all, he only rubbed winning in Duo’s face, and only because Duo did it first.  It was a Tuesday night, though, and there wasn’t much on.  Or at least, nothing that would be interesting to either of them.  Finally, they had just settled for the news, watching the silly and cutesy news give way to the serious as the opinion show finally transitioned into the evening news.           

“—The keynote speech, delivered by Ambassador Kader, was met with unprecedented enthusiasm,” the anchorwoman said.  Trowa might have been reading too much into it, but she seemed to be struggling against her impartiality as she said it.  There was something about her smile.  Quatre let out a noise that might have been a swear before grabbing the remote and muting her.           

“Kader,” he muttered, tossing it onto the couch.           

Quatre saw the man with some regularity, Trowa knew that.  Kader often met with Relena, or at least came to her office to meet with committees or council members attached to her.  Quatre was often present.  Trowa knew that Quatre didn’t relish the meetings, but the level of distaste was surprising.  Especially from Quatre.           

But it was also useful.  “What do you think of him,” Trowa asked after a moment.

“He’s interesting, I’ll admit.  And a good orator.  A very eloquent, interesting snake, really.”           

“Interesting,” Trowa repeated, finding the word choice odd.  “What do you mean?”           

Quatre was quiet, considering his words carefully before sighing.  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an accomplished actor.”           

Trowa blinked but was quiet.  He watched Quatre for a moment, long enough that Quatre sighed and sank back onto the couch.  He looked tired as ran his fingers through his hair.  Trowa almost felt guilty for asking him about it.           

“You have to understand,” Quatre said finally, “where he comes from.  Since the war, well probably quite a while before it, there’s been this…propensity for actors in some Middle Eastern countries.  To be fair, every country does it.  You have to put on an act to get support from other nations.  It’s part of the negotiation.  But countries that are still considered ‘backwards’ or ‘third world’ have to push it a little further.  Kader, though, he takes it to a whole new level.  It, it’s hard to explain.  He looks sincere.  He has such intense control over his expression and his voice, it’s almost impossible to catch, but there are moments,” Quatre said.  He scowled at the television.  “There are moments where he slips, or almost slips.  It comes into his eyes, then, and his smile.  This mild but sneering arrogance.  He’s laughing at everyone because he knows that he has them right where he wants them.  They adore him, and they won’t see whatever it is that he has coming until it’s too late.”           

Trowa frowned some as he considered Quatre’s explanation.  He decided, as he watched the end of the muted news report, that there was something, something he couldn’t quite name in Kader’s expression.  It was a type of arrogance, less than even momentary, that ran deeper than any of the candid photographs or video that Trowa had seen in the briefing suggested.  Kader gloated with his eyes, smiled a particularly predatory grin in between syllables.  It was so quick of an expression, though, that everyone missed it.  Everyone except a couple of former gundam pilots, that was.           

“Quatre, what do you—” Trowa had tilted his head back as he spoke.  He blinked and then sighed, shaking his head.  Reaching over, Trowa grabbed the remote and turned off the television before gathering up the dishes and pizza remains as quietly as possible.  He took everything to the kitchen, left the glasses to be washed in the morning, and threw out the used plates and pizza box.  Trowa turned off the kitchen light and most of the living room lights, leaving just enough light to clean up the cars and let Heero and Duo get to the stairs without trip.           

As Trowa swept the cards into a pile, Quatre made a noise.           

He mewled sleepily, turning on the couch as Trowa’s shadow accidentally fell over him.  Quatre slept lightly, just like the rest of them, and he was in dire need of sleep.  So Trowa was as careful as possible as he put the cards away and then took a spare blanket out of the hall closet.  He draped it over Quatre, moving it carefully to cover him, watching for any signs of wakefulness.  Trowa was leaning over him, tucking the edges around Quatre’s shoulders, when Quatre shifted.  Trowa froze.  Quatre’s breath was soft and warm against his hand.  He was close enough that Trowa could feel the soft heat coming from Quatre’s cheeks.  Close enough to touch him, if he dared.           

Balanced over Quatre, Trowa watched him sleep for a moment, not daring to move.  Barely daring to even breathe.   _Don’t wake him, don’t move, don’t wake him don’t ruin this._ He could lean down, actually.  It would be easy.  He could lean down and finally answer a question he had had for years.  Finally taste something he had thought about, dreamed about, wanted but knew that he really couldn’t have.           

Trowa pulled back.  He stumbled, almost falling over the coffee table.  He bit his tongue to keep from hissing in pain.  Quatre grumbled but stayed asleep, rolling over under the blanket and burrowing into the leather cushions.  Swallowing, Trowa hurried around the couch and to his bedroom, doing his best to hobble as quietly as he could.  He looked back only once, watching Quatre’s blanket-covered shoulder and ruffled blonde hair.  He gripped the doorframe, grinding his teeth.  Then, from outside, there was the distinct crunch of tires on gravel.  A car door slammed.  Quatre shifted again, rolling onto his back and Trowa disappeared into the bedroom.  His door was closed even before the front was unlocked.

For a moment, Trowa leaned his forehead against his bedroom door.  He could hear muttered conversation.  The slight rise at the end of Duo’s garbled sentences that indicated a question.  Heero’s grunt.   Then there was quiet murmuring and the soft grumble-rustle that came with getting a tired friend up the stairs to bed.  None of them stopped by his room.           

Trowa sank down against the door.  With his temple against the wood, he realized that he probably wasn’t going to sleep much.

*----*----*

“All right, let’s take a break.”           

Trowa had been working with Lena for a few days already, so he knew by now that when she said “break” she meant lunch. Not that he was complaining.  His legs and feet were killing him, which on top of being exhausted meant that not falling on his face was a little harder than usual.  With the fifteen-to-twenty minute lunch break, though, he would have a chance to do a little breathing and restore a little energy.           

Even if Lena talked his ear off.           

Lena was, well, she was an exhausting human being.  Worse than Duo on one of his caffeine highs, and that was saying something.  She worked his body hard and his brain harder, bombarding him with critiques and suggestions as they practiced and dancing or personal anecdotes as they rested.  The somewhat nice thing about the constant chatter was that Lena didn’t seem to need, or even want, his reply.  Occasionally she wanted him to answer a question or voice an opinion, but as long as it was clear that Trowa was paying attention, she didn’t mind if he didn’t reciprocate.  Of course, Lena could change the course of conversation with a master’s skill, and then double back to ask a question about something four topics ago.  So Trowa had to pay attention to just about everything.  It made his head hurt.           

But with his head hurting and his body exhausted, he hadn’t been able to dream recently.  Which was a plus.  And learning to dance was nice, too, although he wouldn’t tell her that.  Lena had enough of an ego without his help.           

Wiping sweat from his forehead, Trowa glanced at his watch.  He had taken to wearing it after discovering the room didn’t have a wall clock.  Right on time for lunch.  Biting back a sigh, Trowa headed over the his dufflebag by the wall.  He dug out his sandwich, salad, and tea (he had needed the little extra with additional exercise, and the salads at the café just weren’t very good.  Trowa had started making them, and his sandwich, at home) and sat down on one of the folding chairs she had set up.  Lena turned down the music before joining.           

“You’re doing good,” she said as she opened her usual Tupperware of homemade sushi.  Trowa swallowed down a rude snort.  That was coming from the woman who threatened to break his ankle an hour if kept getting the turn wrong.  “You’re a quicker study than anyone I’ve worked with.”  He didn’t imagine the lasted many lessons.  “By the way,” she said, leaning over to exchange two of her vegetable rolls for a block of his tofu.  Her vegetable rolls were fantastic so he let her.  “We’re going to start your routine after lunch.  Showtime’s in a couple of days.”           

“Alright.”           

“Don’t worry about it.”  Trowa gave her a distinct side eye.   _Who said I was worried?_ She ignored it.  “You’ve mastered basics pretty damn well for someone who’s never danced before.  Little more work and we’ll have a great routine.”  Lena settled back in her chair and nibbled at a roll as she thought out loud.  “You’d probably do great with a hip-hop, pop-n-lock fusion, maybe throw in a little belly-dancing just to get them sweating.”           

Trowa bit savagely into his sandwich.           

“Got to decide on what you’ll wear, too.”           

“Oh boy,” he muttered.  Lena stabbed him in the arm with her chopsticks.           

“Don’t give me that attitude.  You’ve got a job to do, and I’m helping you do it.  And it doing to right means you’ve got to look good and move good.”           

“Would you please stop stabbing me with those?”           

“Drop the attitude, and I might.”           

“I don’t have an attitude to drop.”           

“Oh darling, you fucking do.”  Trowa sighed through his nose and took a bite of his sandwich to keep his tongue in check.  Lena smirked.  Taking it as a victory, she turned back to her food.           

They ate quietly for a moment before Trowa turned his head towards her some.  “Lena,” he started.  There had been something that had been bothering him recently, and now that he was starting to create his persona for the job, he needed an answer.  “Answer something for me?”           

“Depends on the question.  What’s up?”

“I’m assuming you, you know about this club.”           

Surprisingly enough, Lena snorted.  “Wow, and Une told me you were smart.  Well, yeah I ‘know’ about it, I work there.”           

Trowa blinked.  “You work an erotic dancer.”           

“A damn good one, thank you very much.”           

He found that he wasn’t actually surprised.  It explained a lot.  “I haven’t any doubt, but how did you get there?”           

Lena frowned slightly at the question.  “You don’t seem like the sharing type, truth be told.”           

“I’m not,” Trowa admitted, “but I need to make a persona—”           

“A what?”           

“A persona.  It’s, it’s like a character.  An identity, just for this mission.  And she needs to fit in, and since you’re the only erotic dancer I know—”

“You’re looking for a little background experience to give her,” she said.  Lena nodded after moment.  “I can get that.  My shit’s not all that unusual, to be honest.  Drugs, gambling.  There’s probably some prostitution in there that I’m forgetting.  Clearly not on my end.”           

Trowa felt a twinge in his chest and regretted asking.  “I’m not seeing how that’s ‘usual’.”           

Lena smiled.  “My mom skipped out on us when I was, god I think I was six?  And my dad dealt with it the way that most deadbeats do: pissing money down the hole that is shitty habits.  When he died, my brother took his habits up because that’s apparently what dumb boys do.  Mind you, I had run off by then.  Crashed with a good friend and her parents pretty much adopted me.  I got into the academy on a dancing scholarship with their help.  Well, my brother got himself in some deep debt with very serious people, and he thought that taking about another loan with some different but equally serious people was the best way to solve it.  And me, being the dumb naïve bleeding hear that I was at eighteen, agreed to cosign for him.  So when he cut his loses and ran, I got the late-night door bashing.”           

Trowa had run into that type of serious before and was honestly surprised she was still alive to talk about it.           

“Thankfully, the shark thought I was cute and he felt a little bad for me, what with the sobbing and the begging and the cursing of my shithead of a brother to an early grave.  So he gave me some choices.  I could, you know, die, which I wasn’t keen on.  I could work for him because he had a couple of brothels that needed younger merchandise.  Or I could help out his friend at _his_ club and just give up my check for a few years.  I’m sure you’ve figured out which job I took.”            

“I have a good idea.”           

“I mean, I still had to audition but I went to academy.  I’m used to that.  And I had to answer all of these questions about what I would do if I was caught or interrogated.  But the manager ended up liking my style and my attitude, so I got the job.  And you at least he was cute so sucking him off and rolling over for him wasn’t that big of a deal.  You know, if you chew your food like a normal person, you won’t choke on it.”

Trowa took a long swallow of tea to dislodge the bite of sandwich he had choked on.  He stared at her, red and slightly panting.  She tilted her head as she popped sushi in her mouth.           

“You slept with him?”           

She swallowed.  “Yeah, but I’ve slept with a lot of people.  I like it.”           

“But why?”           

“I thought I just answered that.”

“No, why him?”

“Because I’d rather dance than be in a loser’s bed just because he paid for me.  And it’s a good job.  I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.  I get to do what I like: dance all night, design my own costumes, get all the attention for all the gentlemen, shit talk with other girls.  And get paid for it.  Sure, the guys can be total pervs sometimes, and I know they’d like to nail me in the alley if they could catch me, but they can’t.  We’ve got good security, he doesn’t make us put out unless we want to, and he knows that I put out for no man.”           

“Except the manager.”           

“Well yeah but he’s the exception, and he hasn’t really bothered with me since my audition.”

Trowa nodded, unsure of what to say.  He had asked, of course, and had gotten his answer.  Enough of an answer that he’d be able to start crafting a compelling identity.  But he didn’t know what to say to her, about any of it.  He didn’t suppose she wanted him to say anything.  It was her life, and while he was very glad he didn’t live it, she seemed happy with it for the most part.  If she wanted to dance half naked every day, that was Lena’s prerogative.  It wouldn’t be right to condemn or support.  His opinion had absolutely no bearing.           

Still, he couldn’t exactly see how she could enjoy it.  Then again, he couldn’t see a lot of things.           

“It’s really not a bad gig,” she said again.  “Especially for someone like me.  I mean, I never really got to finish the academy, and I never got the marks to get into a traditional college or anything.  So for someone with no degree and no connections, it’s a decent deal.  And the girls are all really tight.  We look out for each other.  When I was giving up my pay check every month, I had a different couch to crash on every week.  They helped me learn how to sew and do my makeup and fix shoes.  They’re the best friends you could have in the business.  And it might be a sleazy kind of place, but it’s an upscale sleazy place.  They’ve got all sorts of rules to protect the joint and the girls, not the guests.”           

“Such as?”           

“Well like the ‘eye-candy’ policy.  So basically, it’s this super strict protection for temps, popular dangers, traumatized dangers, young’ens—although he’s pretty damn good at keeping everyone legal and up.  The last thing you want is the sex police on your ass.  Anyway, you get on this policy and what it does is it limits the customers to ‘look, do not touch.’  Guys can look at you all they want.  Salivate, fantasize, jack off, whatever, but they can’t touch you.  At all.  Period.  They so much as breathe on you wrong, and security throws them out on their fat asses faster than they can whip out some creds.  And if someone breaks the eye candy policy, they do not get to come back.”

“That is impressive.”

“Isn’t it though, and it’s hard to get in this club in the first place.  Invitation only, if you have the rep or a connection that can vouch for you.  They can revoke your invite anytime they want.  It’s a cred place, no cards.  No names.  You even have to bring your own booze.  We’ve got all kinds of glasses though.  So yeah, if someone fucks up and gets kicked out, they have a better chance of surviving a live grenade in their pocket than getting back in.”

Trowa decided not to tell her that he knew the statistical possibility of that.

“So yeah, very tight, very strict.  They kind of have to be, though, or else there’s raids.”           

“Raided often?”           

“More often than you’d think, considering all the precautions.  But we’ve got a system and it usually works pretty well.  We’ll catch wind that someone’s coming down on us.  Usually its city or country feds.  So the manager packs everything up and everyone gets ‘fired.’  Which is pretty much time off with pay.  We lay low for a couple of weeks until he calls us back.  By then, we’ve got a new venue, some new girls and staff, and probably one less shitty customer.           

“You know, now that I think about,” she said, looking up at the ceiling, “that last raid is how I got to meet her.”           

“Meet who?”                

“Une, genius.  Thank god you’re pretty.”           

Trowa scowled, but he had to admit he was intrigued.           

“I’ve been caught in a total of two raids, thank you very much.  The first was a couple years ago, Sanc feds caught us by surprise.  I had stuck around to help with the dismantligh and they got the jump on us.  I was the only one to actually get my ass caught, and they were going to charge me with the whole shebang.  Until I reminded them that if they charged me, they wouldn’t get anything on the guys who came there.  You know, the ones they really wanted.  So then, they offered me a deal to be a snitch.  Well I’m not fond of snitching but I’m less fond of jail so I played along.  Gave them mid-level guys I think that we were happy to get rid of.  And then there was the second raid, led by your lovely group.”           

“Nothing personal.”           

“Of course not, but you know what?  I got arrested and those damn fuckers _dropped_ me.  Denied my name, denied they knew me, denied that I had ever given anything to them,” she spat, snapping her chopsticks.  Lena tossed them into her back.  “Anyway so there I was, totally abandoned, sitting in a holding cell you guys got somewhere in this monstrosity of a building, wondering how bad is women’s prison, when Une walks in.  No hello.  No scare talk.  Just walks up to me, pulls up a chair and goes, ‘how much do you know about so and so’.  So and so being one of our less popular customer.  So I gave her a little bit, just to keep her interested but to keep my ass covered so she won’t drop me or chuck me in jail.  And you know what she asks?”            

“No.”           

“She asks if I could get someone in as a waiter,” Lena laughed.  “She wanted an in for some other sting.  Not too different from this one, but not as dangerous.   Anyway, I got her her in, they got their guy, and I didn’t have to do anything except suggest some temporary help to the manager.  It all worked out so well that she said she’d call whenever she needed an in.  And slip me a little something for my trouble.”           

“So you’re her go to.”

“When she needs someone in.”           

“Someone like me.”           

“Yeah, someone like you although I admit, I hadn’t thought she’d ask for a dance spot.  It’s a little bit harder, but I’ve got it figured.”           

“How so?”           

Lena smiled.  “You’re going to be standing in for one of the girls who oh so unfortunately sick that night?”           

“Who’s sick?”  He had a sinking suspicion that he already knew.           

“Me.  I’ll call in the day before, or hell a couple hours before.  Really make him sweat, then he has to take you.  And I’ll whine and beg and tell him that you’re an old friend or something, and this is a huge favor you’re doing for me.”           

“And you think that’s really going to work?”           

“Oh honey, trust me, when I cry I can get damn near anything I want.”           

He didn’t doubt that.           

“Right then,” she said, tossing her empty tupperware back into her back.  “Enough chitchat, back to work.  Off your butt, we’ve got to get started on your routine.”  She stood and kicked the chair aside.  Trowa grit his teeth against the screech of the metal feet on the floor.  “Definitely a fusion with some belly dance.  That’ll get their attention.”           

_I am not showing off my stomach._ He’d seen those costumes before, and it would a cold day in hell before Trowa flashed his binder at someone.  And a colder one the day he took it off for a mission like this.           

By the end of the day, Lena had most of the routine worked out for him, minus a few bits of “flair,” as she called them.  Trowa had most of it committed to memory, and he could do pretty much all of it.  Lena had hardly made any comments to him as he learned, which was a first.           

“We’re pretty much done with the tough stuff,” she said after he came back from changing into his uniform.  “Good job.  I’ll plan out the extra bits of flair.  Belly rolls and all, and we’ll incorporate that tomorrow.”  Trowa knew better than to argue by now and just inclined his head.           

He was nearly at the door when she called to him over her shoulder.           

“Oh, one more thing,” she said while stuffing music into her bag.  “Is that permanent?”           

Trowa raised an eyebrow.  “Excuse me?”           

Lena gestured impatiently towards his reflection.  “That.  Your hair.  Is it permenant?”           

“Of course not,” Trowa said frowning.”

“Perfect, leave it down for now on.”           

Trowa nearly dropped his bag.  She hadn’t said that.  She had not actually said that.   _ I’m tired.  I’m exhausted.  I’m clearly hearing things because she did not just ask that. _ __

“What,” Trowa asked, somehow keeping the panic out of his voice.           

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,” she sighed.  Lena straightened and turned, hands on her hips.  “This isn’t that extreme a request, darling.  You know, I get it.  I’m a little attached to mine too and I’m guilty of spending way too much time in the bathroom getting my hair into a fucked up style.”  Considering that his hair was at least still one shade, Trowa thought he had less of a fucked up style than her.  “But for the sake of the mission, and I know you’ll do anything for the mission, keep the pomade in the jar.  Because I promise you, that’s way too conspicuous.”

Trowa grit his teeth.  “Sake of the mission?”           

“Sake of the mission.”           

“Fine,” he grumbled.

“Don’t pout.  It’s just for a couple of days,” she said, turning back to her things.  Trowa turned on his heel, but not fast enough.  “Besides, we need to coordinate with your costume and hair is a must.”           

Trowa shivered.   _ Wonderful. _

*----*----*

He was never going to forgive Lena for this, or Une for that matter.           

Trowa knew he was being ridiculous.  Hair was nothing to lose sleep over, and he had lost sleep over it.  After a short dinner made unbearable awkward by his irritation and then a shower that had done nothing to soothe his nerves, Trowa had dropped into bed to toss and turn until midnight.  Then he had a few hours of particularly bad nightmares and woke up in a cold sweat a few hours before his alarm.           

By six, he had already been sitting on his bed, fully dressed, glaring at his reflection.           

Now it was seven and he had been glaring at his reflection for an hour.           

Trowa leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and scowled at his reflection.  He could see the right side of his face, just as normal as the left, but it was so unusual to see that it felt almost scarred to him.  Trowa tilted his head slightly, and as he did, a lock of hair slid across his cheek and nose and into his eyes.  Again.           

Grumbling, Trowa stood and stomped over to the dresser.  He snatched up his hair brush and tugged it through his hair.  It didn’t catch at all.  Trowa had already brushed it half a dozen times, somehow convinced that brushing it would get him used to it tickling his cheek, jaw, and neck.  It didn’t.  Trowa put the brush down, inclining his head as he did just enough to bring all of his hair into his face.  Snarling, Trowa pushed his, running his fingers through it to somehow convince it to stay back.   _ Why won’t it just stay back? _ __

Trowa glanced at his clock and swallowed.  He couldn’t put it off any longer, not unless he wanted to be late.  And without breakfast.  He would just have to deal with it.  People were going to notice, going to stare.  That was normal.  Natural, even, considering he was breaking a long-established habit.  He was going to be noticed: noticed at work, noticed at the table.  If he didn’t kick himself out of the room now, Duo was going to do it for him in a few minutes, and that would just make it worse.         

People were going to notice.  They would stare.  But it was fine.  It was just hair, no big deal.           

Except it was.           

Trowa couldn’t exactly explain it, except his hair was something uniquely his.  It might not have been “natural” but it was comforting and a style that he had grown to like in addition to appreciate.  That long sweep of auburn had given him something to focus on when he felt the need to pull away.  It had given him something to hide behind without looking like he was hiding.  It made him feel safe.           

He knew that was pathetic.  Maybe he actually needed this push.           

Sighing, Trowa stepped out of his bedroom, duffle bag in hand.  The familiar sounds of Quatre and cooking came from the kitchen.  Trowa tucked his duffle bag onto the couch before heading towards them.           

Quatre heard him pad up behind him.  He pulled a pan off the stove as he turned.  “Good morning, Trowa.  Did you—”           

There was a gasp and a sharp clatter as the pan slipped out of Quatre’s grip.  Pancakes splattered and slid across the floor.  Trowa winced as the pan continued to rattle.  Quatre didn’t seem to notice the noise or the mess.  He simply stared.           

Heero and Duo, however, did.

“Quatre, are you okay,” Duo asked in minor panic as he jumped the last stair.  “I heard something, holy shit.”

If Trowa wasn’t already so frustrated, he might have found Quatre’s open mouth, Heero’s wide eyes, and Duo’s damn near trip over his own feet very amusing.  But he didn’t.  He frowned at each of them, saving Duo for last.           

“Not a word,” he said slowly.  Trowa snatched a dishtowel off the counter, wiped the pancake mess into the pan, picked up the hot pan and carefully thrust it at Quatre, handle first.

He didn’t want Quatre to burn himself after all.

“Trowa, what did you do,” Duo asked after Quatre had taken the pan and Trowa had headed for his seat.  He didn’t answer.  Duo slid up behind him as Trowa sat down.  He examined Trowa’s head with a critical eye before running his fingers through Trowa’s hair.  He barely got his fingers out of the way when Trowa grabbed at them, jaw tense.

Quatre and Heero exchanged a look before Quatre hurried the pan to the sink.  Heero got more towels to clean up the floor.           

“Seriously, what did you do to your hair,” Duo asked.           

“Nothing obviously,” Trowa muttered.           

“But Trowa, it’s soft. It’s never soft.”           

“Duo, if you touch me one more time.”           

“And it’s so, so normal looking.  Like I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a couple guys in the office with a look like this.”           

“Clearly you’re not fond of your fingers, because I will break them if you keep touching me.”  Duo took his hands out of Trowa’s hair but didn’t move away.           

“How did you get it like this?”           

“I left it alone.”           

“But why?”

Trowa closed his eyes.   _I won’t hit him, I won’t hit him._ “Because I was told to.”           

“For the mission,” Heero asked, finally breaking the hard stare he had been giving Trow with a slight tilt of his head.  Trowa opened his eyes and nodded.           

“For the mission.”           

Heero nodded once.  “I see.  Well it’s, it’s different.  For you.”

“Understatement of the day,” Duo said.           

“I think it’s nice,” Quatre said, smiling softly.  “It suits you.”  Trowa was suddenly glad he was so angry, since it stopped him from blushing. “Besides, it’s only until after the mission.  If you really don’t like it, Trowa, you can go back to it then.”

“I suppose that’s true.  We should probably eat breakfast, though, before we’re all late,” Trowa said.

“Oh!  Oh, yes of course. Um,” Quatre trailed off, looking at the dirty dish towel and the pan in the sink.  “Is cereal okay this morning?”           

“Sounds perfect,” Duo said smiling.  “Not that we don’t love your pancakes, but I’m asking you to cook twice.”           

“How kind of you.  Help me get the bowls.”           

Breakfast was much more rushed than usual, considering all the time lost between spilled pancakes and hair talk.  Quatre finished his cereal with just enough time left to realize that if he didn’t leave immediately, and make every green light, was going to be late for the first of a long string of meetings.  For once, Duo didn’t say anything after Quatre rushed out.  He only shook his head.  The three of them left their dishes in the sink for later before they headed out to the car.           

Trowa’s mood didn’t improve when he got to the office.  He encountered a few stares in the parking lot, including one poor soul that walked straight into a column as he walked and stared at Trowa at the same time.  Duo found it all very funny.  Wufei and Zechs thankfully didn’t say anything, and they seemed to get over their surprise rather quickly.  They greeted him almost normally, besides a couple of prolonged looks.           

Lena was by far the worst.

“Oh perfect,” she said, after greeting him with a whistle and a clap.  She circled him as Trowa set his bag down on the usual folding chair.  “Asymmetrical is totally in right now, and that length is great on you.  I was a little worried it would look, like, all weird.  Weird length and layering and all, but this is awesome.  And it’ll go beautifully with the outfit I whipped up.”

Trowa took several steadying breaths through his nose.  “Outfit,” he asked finally.           

“Just finished it this morning,” she said, skipping over to her stereo.  “It’s amazing what you can do when you give up sleep.”

“You gave up sleep for this?”

“Not really.  I was on graveyard last night and by the end of it, I was hyped up on caffeine.  So I just stayed up and did it.  It really wasn’t that hard.”

Trowa couldn’t sew a button in under ten minutes, so he took her word for it.           

“You’ll get to try it on later.  Right now, I want to run through the routine with you again, and then you’ll run it alone.”  Trowa nodded and followed her to the center of the room.  Lena had already started the music, and she kept time with taps of her fingers to her hip.  “From the top, repeat after me.”  He slid into the start position and watched her reflection, waiting for that one beat to start them off.           

For once, Lena didn’t jump down his throat for being a split-second late.  Because he wasn’t.           

In fact, Lena didn’t have any comments at all.  After a while, Trowa barely even noticed her, dancing beside him.  He certainly didn’t notice when she spun to the side, out of the way, and stopped to watch him.  He was focused: focused on the steps he had been laboring over all week, focused on arm placement and foot placement and heel height.  Trowa didn’t notice her until the song ended and he couldn’t make the next step because there wasn’t one.           

Then, however, he noticed her grinning.           

“Excellent.  Really excellent.  Now do it again.”           

Trowa ran through the routine three more times before Lena nodded with that certain finality.  She smiled and waved him over to the folding chairs.  Trowa frowned but came.  It was a different smile: not quite that mischievous “I’m going to make you do something you’ll hate because I can” smirk, but also not the “I’m happy because you’re doing so damn well” smile.  He sat down when Lena patted the seat of the folding chair and frowned more when she set a box in his lap.           

A shoebox, to be exact.

“I think you’re just about ready.  Just one more thing before wardrobe and dress rehearsal.”  Trowa had a sinking suspicion he knew what that “one more thing” was.  He lifted the lid of the box and wasn’t disappointed.  “I’m pretty sure you’re the same size as my friend.”

"These are heels.”           

“Well you didn’t think you’d be dancing in sneakers did you?  Not that kind of joint.”           

“No one said anything about heels.”           

“It was kind of implied.  Try them on.  And before you even start, no you don’t get a choice.”           

Trowa took a slow breath through his noise and warned himself not to think that it couldn’t get any worse.   _It always can._ Glaring at her briefly, he set the shoes aside and started unlacing his sneakers.  He pulled them off, along with his socks which he folded and stuffed inside of them.  Trowa tucked them under the chair before picking up the heels.  It took him a moment to figure them out—they were heeled sandals and they had far too many straps—but finally he got them secured to his feet.           

“How do they feel,” Lena asked.  If she was annoyed or amused by how long it took him, she didn’t let it show.           

“Awkward,” Trowa said after a moment.  She rolled her eyes.           

“Smartass.  I meant are they too tight?  Too loose?  Cutting off circulation?”  Trowa twisted his ankles one way and then the other, trying to determine if they were pinching anyway they shouldn’t.  He decided finally, unfortunately, that they weren’t and that he could probably wear them for an extended period.  Even dance in them.           

The disappointment probably showed in his voice.  “They seem to fit okay.”           

“You sound so excited,” she teased.  “Come on, get up.  I want you to walk around so we can check your balance.”  When Trowa didn’t seem inclined to move, Lena gave him a nudge to get off the chair.  Trowa wobbled slightly to his feet, feeling a distinct change to his sense of balance.  Lena looked him over before nodding.  “Walk to the other side of the room and back.  Heel to toe.  It’s easier than it looks, trust me.”           

Trowa looked from his feet to the other side of the room.  Suddenly, it seemed ridiculously far.  He swallowed and took a step, realizing as he did that there was a much larger margin of error thanks to the narrow heel.  His ankle pitched slightly as he walked slowly across the room, but Trowa managed to stay up right.  Halfway to the other side, Trowa stopped wobbling.  Three-quarters there, Trowa thought he might have had the hang of it.           

Then he made the mistake of glancing at his profile in the mirror.           

Lena smiled as he walked back; apart from that one stumble, he hadn’t tripped at all.  “Most guys don’t pick it up quite that quick.  Probably the gymnast in you.  Now do the routine in those.  Here’s a pro-tip: remember what I said about the heel.  It still applies.  Don’t put your heel down.”

Dancing in heels was much harder, but the long-standing advice helped.  If Trowa kept most of his weight on the balls of his feet, he barely seemed to notice the heel.  The shoes’ soles had enough grip to keep him from feeling like he would slip, and the shoe was balanced enough in its weight to keep from feeling overbalanced in them.  After a little adjustment, every spin was perfect again.  Every transition was flawless.  Near the end of the routine, Trowa realized that it didn’t feel all that different from dancing in sneakers.  He could do it in heels.  He could probably do it better in heels.           

Trowa wasn’t the only one that thought so.           

“I’m impressed.” Une had waited until the very end of the song.  Trowa nearly slipped, botching the finish.  Thankfully he didn’t fall.  “I knew you could teach just about anyone, but he’s learned a lot fast.”           

“He’s a good student when he’s not grumbling.  Attentive, eager, stubborn.  And a perfectionist like me.”  Lena turned down the music before going over to shake Une’s hand.  “What’s up.”

“There’s been a change in plans,” she said, glancing at Trowa.  Trowa fought down a flush, and the minor but powerful hope that Une had managed to find someone else to go.

Lena frowned and put her hands on her hips.  “He’s got the routine down, he’s got the shoes, I got the outfit all ready for him.  If you’re changing your spy this late in the game, I really can’t promise to do quality work with them.  I can’t just teach anyone to be stellar in a week.  He’s a special case.”           

“Don’t worry, Lena, Trowa’s still going.  It’s the time line that’s changed.”

“Wasn’t he going in, like, tomorrow?”           

“He was, but now it’s today.”  Trowa turned and stared.  Une sighed and ran a hand through her hair.  “Short notice, I know, but Kader is getting suspicious.  We’ve got worried that tonight is his last there and we don’t want to lose him.  It took us months to confirm he was using this club.  We don’t have that kind of time to find the next.  We need the information tonight.”           

Trowa tried to always be prepared early, but he had hoped for another twelve hours.  If not for the persona, then at least for himself.           

“You know what,” Lena said, interrupting his momentary panic.  “This is doable.  Actually, no this is perfect.  There’s no way he can say no now when I call out sick.  Too short notice, he’ll never get another girl in time.  He’ll have to take Trowa on my word.”  Nodding to herself, Lena hurried to her bag and started digging through it.  Une watched her, hands crossed over her chest.  After a moment, she looked Trowa up and down.           

“Nice heels,” she said finally.  Trowa nearly blushed.  He had almost forgotten about those.           

“Hey, hey, you got a name for your person-thingy,” Lena called.           

“Persona?”           

“Yeah that.”           

The name had been the hardest part.  “Tracy.”

“Alright cool, easy to remember.  Anything I need to know about Tracy, besides she’s my friend?  Figured we met in the academy together, that all right?”

“It’s fine.”  It was actually close to what Trowa had come up with.  He had only Lena’s background to go on, so he had incorporated her a little more heavily into the persona than he normally would have.  “She’s mute.”

Une gave him a confused look, completely with raised eyebrows.           

“It’s safest,” Trowa said, “while still allowing me access.  I can’t get my voice that high naturally, and it’ll be suspicious if I try to force it all night.  Mute, I can move around freely without worrying about giving myself away. I can a pad of paper to communicate with, since I’m pretty sure no one there is going to be able to sign.”  And Trowa didn’t have the time to learn it.

Une considered his explanation for a moment and then nodded.  “Clever,” she said finally.

“Plus that will totally get you on the eye-candy policy.  No one will be able to touch you.”  Lena pulled out her cell phone.  “Found it.  Okay, what’s a good illness. Flu’s been going around recently, and it’s easy to contract.  I’ll just go with that.”  Lena dialed out a number and waited for the line to connect, rocking on the balls of her feet.  She smiled and winked at them when Trowa heard a muffled voice on the other end.           

If he hadn’t just seen her dancing five minutes ago, Trowa might have thought she was actually ill. Lena let out a string of convincing hacking coughs, doubling over for effect.  “R, Robert?  It, it’s Lena.” She faked an impressively loud sneexe.  “Hey I—what?  Yeah I know I sound like shit.  I look like it, too.  Oh very funny, you’re so cute.”  She let out another cough.  “Oh you noticed the couch.  Yeah.  Yeah, funny thing about my shift tonight.  The thing is, I, ugh excuse.”  Lena pulled the phone from her ear and hacked as loudly as she could.  Trowa was amazed she didn’t gag.  “I’m dying.  Well no not actually dying but I can barely get out of bed.  I’m not coming in tonight.”           

If the loud string of courses coming from the phone was any indication, this “Robert” was very upset.           

“I know, I know, I always headline this shift but I literally can’t.  I almost tripped down the stairs trying to get to the pharmacy.  Me, trip!  I know, I’m leaving you short-handed but it’s not like I wanted to be sick.  Shit, you know me, I hate sitting.  I hate being stuck in bed, and I hate being cold.  I’m all those things with this fucking fever.  Yeah, yeah, I know I fucked you over but if you’d stop yelling for two seconds, I can tell you how I didn’t.”           

Even when faking sick, Lena managed to have a mischievous grin.  She kept it out of her voice, though, so Trowa was sure Robert couldn’t tell.           

“Look I found a girl for you.” She paused to cough again.  “Ugh, sorry.  What?  No, no, she’s totally good.  Clean, tight lipped.  I mean she ought to be, she’s mute.”  Lena winked at him.  “She’s knows how to sign but she always carries around a notebook so you’ll be fine with communicating.  She gets it, she’s real go-with-the-flow, okay?  How do I know her?” She hacked again.  “We’re academy girls, danced together every day for years ‘till I dropped out.  What?  No, no, nothing like that. She’s doing this as a favor for me.  She’s not in any kind of trouble, she was always the good one.  Well. I helped her out, you see, gave her a place to crash when she was running from her ex—”  Trowa scowled.  That hadn’t been figured into it at all, but now he would have to incorporate it.  He started trying to weave it in with the rest and commit it to memory.  Bastard’s name was Larry.           

“Uh huh.  Uh huh.  Yeah.  Seriously, Robert, when she dances she is on fire.  A little shy and vanilla off, but get her on a stage and she wows.  Promise.  They’ll love her.  Uh huh.  Uh huh, got it.  9:00.  She’ll be there.  Her name is Tracy, don’t give her a stage name she hates that.  Yeah, she knows all about the eye-candy policy.  Well of course, I told her to burn and flush the address, I’m not stupid.  Stop worrying, she won’t fuck you over.  Uh huh, yeah she’ll be there tonight.”  Lena sniffled loudly and then smiled.  “Yeah, yeah, lots of sleep and mind-rotting TV.  I’ll get better as quick as I can.  I’ll check in with tomorrow, let you know how I’m feeling.  Uh huh, uh huh.  Okay, talk to you tomorrow, boss.  Love ya.”           

Lena hung up and tossed her phone back in her bag.  “Done and done, boy’s in.”           

Une actually chuckled.  “You never cease to amaze me, Lena.”

“Good thing you decided not to chuck my fine ass in jail, huh,” she asked, winking.  “He’s totally ready.  He’s going to routine down and he’ll nail it in those shoes.  All that’s left is the look and maybe a little last minute practice.”

“Can you get it done?”

“When’s he going?”  Une looked down at her watch.

“Team rolls out at 5:00.”           

“Plenty of time.  We’ll grab lunch and get started.  He’ll be perfect by the time you get back.”

“I’m trusting you, Lena.  You’ve done a fantastic job.”  Une smiled at Trowa before turning and heading towards the door. 

“Alright, lunch.  Let’s make it quick,” Lena said.  She dragged the usual folding chairs over and waved him to sit down.  Trowa did and started reaching for the shoes.  Lena actually swatted at his hand.  “Don’t take those off yet.  You’re going to have to used to having them on, and besides, I might need to do alterations and it’s better to do that with the whole outfit.”           

He scowled, sighed, and reached for his sandwich.           

Trowa didn’t have much of his usual appetite and only managed to finish about a third of his food.  This ended up being perfectly fine since Lena barely let them have ten minutes for lunch.  She wolfed down her sushi, drained her tea, and was up again.

“Alright.  Let’s run through it a couple more times and then we’ll get the outfit squared.”

A few more times turned into a dozen and Trowa soon lost track of the repetitions.  By the time Lena called for a stop, he was tired and his feet were starting to regret the heels.  Lena let him actually sit as she rooted through her bag.  She set some bundles of fabric in his lap.

“Take a breather and then we’ll try those on.”           

Trowa gave himself less of a breather than he really need: just enough time to drink some water and feel the sweat cooling on his skin.  He couldn’t sit any longer than that.  He just wanted it over.  Setting the water down, Trowa tucked the clothing under his arm and headed for the changing room.  He stopped when he realized Lena was following him.           

“What are you doing?”           

“I have to see how it fits so I know what I need to take in or let out.  It’s called ‘alterations’,” she said like it should have been perfectly obvious.           

Trowa turned slowly. “You are not following me in the men’s changing room.”           

“Are you serious?  It’s not like I haven’t seen a naked man before.”  Trowa ground his teeth.           

“You. Aren’t. Coming.”           

“Ugh fine, whatever,” she said, backing up finally.  “Just hurry up and come out here when you’re done so I can take a look.”           

“Fine.”           

Lena turned and went back to her stereo.  The music was on and blaring again when Trowa entered the changing room, but once he closed the door, the thick walls swallowed most of the sound.  Trowa set the clothes down on the bench.           

Across from him was a mirror, not unlike the one from the main locker room for the training floor.  A little narrower perhaps.  He wondered suddenly if the staff had repaired the mirror in there.  He hadn’t dare go back since hacking the security footage.      

He hoped whatever Lena had put together for him wasn’t going to make him want to break another mirror.  He’d feel bad for the staff.  And she would ask questions.           

Trowa turned back to the clothes and looked them over one by one.  He had to admit, Lena was very good with needle and thread, or probably machine.  That didn’t stop him from finding the outfit unsettling though.  The top seemed to have a very large cut that ran from the hem all the way to the breast bone.  It didn’t seem like a rip, just part of the design.  Still, it posed a very serious problem.           

It would show the binder.

Even if his binder was the exact color of his skin—which it wasn’t—Trowa had no doubt that people would recognized the fabric and the snaps right away.           

A shiver ran down his spine.  Trowa’s fingers trembled some as he ran them over the hem of the shirt and then the hem of his own.  Out of habit. He glanced over his shoulder.  All alone.  Door closed.  Breathing deeply, he set the shirt down on the bench before tugging his own up over his head.  Trowa turned his back on the mirror and refused to look as he carefully undid the snaps of his binder.  He folded it into his shirt, and then took off his pants, wrapped them around the shirt, and set the whole pile on the bench.  He’d have to come back for them, and iron them this weekend, but like that, no one should be interested in them enough to shake them out.           

Trowa turned to Lena’s outfit.  He laid the clothes out on the bench piece by piece, frowning.  There was a third piece that he hadn’t noticed before.  It took him a minute to recognize it.  He felt nauseous.           

He sank onto the bench before his legs could give out, squeezing the padded cups slightly with his fingers.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  He had never even considered wearing one, not even when he started to show.  It had been bandages first, then tape when he could find it, then the binder.  Never…one of these.   _ I’m not supposed to have the parts to fill it out, either.   _ Trowa turned the bra over in his hands and noticed a flap on the inside of the cup.  The padding could be taken out; Lena must have added it, thinking Trowa would “need it.”

He tossed the padding in the trash.           

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but it didn’t matter now.  Trowa got the bra on after a couple of tries—he had seen Catherine do it, since she had never been particularly shy about her body.  It was uncomfortable and not in the familiar way the binder was.           

The discomfort only increased as he put on the rest of the outfit.  The top was soft but fitted, falling almost perfectly in line with his curves.  He could barely feel the skirt; it was flared out from his thighs enough that it just brushed them when he moved.  Trowa couldn’t shake the feeling he was naked.   _You’re not.  You’re dressed.  Remember that.  You’re dressed, they can’t see.  This is just a costume to them._ It didn’t make him feel better.           

Neither did Lena.  She actually whistled when he stepped out of the changing room.

“Always did love a man in a skirt,” she said in what she obviously assumed was praised.  “Come here and let me look at you.”  Trowa tried not to look at himself in the mirror as he approached.  He stopped just before her and looked at the ceiling while she inspected him.  “Not bad, not bad.  You know I don’t know why I thought you wouldn’t shave.  You were a gymnast, habit and all.”  It took Trowa a moment to realize she was talking about his legs.  His face warmed.  He did still shave, because he might not do it often but acrobatics and leg hair didn’t mix all that well.  He only needed to yank out a long swath once to decide to shave regularly. 

“Do a slow turn for me?”  Eyes closed, Trowa turned on the spot.  “Fits pretty good.  I’ll take in the back a little bit since it’s still a little big, and I’ll lower the hem.  Your legs are longer than I thought.  Stand still.”           

Lena pulled out a sewing kit from her bag.  Trowa locked his knees as Lena picked up the edge of the skirt.  It wouldn’t need to much height to show off, well, everything.  Lena didn’t lift it further.  She worked astonishingly fast, making small precise cuts with her scissors before readjusting and sewing the hem.           

“It’s not super pretty,” she explained as she worked, “but it doesn’t need to be.  From the stage, no one will notice.”           

When she finished, Lena took a step back.  She examined the new length critically before nodding.  “Now the shirt.  Normally I’d say take it off— ” _Not a chance in fucking hell._ “—but that’s an issue for you so just stand still.”  Trowa took a deep breath but nodded.  He stood as still as possible as Lena went behind him.  The fabric around his torso tightened some as Lena pulled it and stitched it into place.  The cut in the fabric that bared his stomach seemed to widen.  Trowa looked at the ceiling and waited. 

Finally Lena came back around him.  She took a needle between her teeth, jabbed it in the pincushion, and looked him over.  “Much better,” she decided.  She tossed the sewing kit back into the bag and got the two sewing chairs.  This time, she set them up with one facing the other.

Lena patted one.  “Park it.”  Trowa sat down in the chair as normally as possible, sitting straight and stiff and fighting the urge to cross his legs.  Lena got something from her bag before sitting across from him.  She opened a silver and black case he had never seen before.           

“Alright now relax your face.”           

Trowa frowned.  “Why?”

“Because you’ll mess it up otherwise.  Relax.”           

Trowa grabbed her wrist before the makeup brush even made it out of the box.

“I draw the line right here.”           

“It’s cute how you think I care,” Lena said.  She sighed when Trowa sneered at her.  “Look it’s not that big a deal.  Honestly, guys should wear make up more, it does wonders.  Not that you need all that much, your skin is pretty fucking flawless.  But with the right shadow and liner?  Your eyes will pop.”           

Trowa’s scowl deepened.

“Fine don’t wear it after this, but tonight you’ve got to.  It’s part of the look, part of the performance, and it’ll help.  I’m going to flatter your features and soften them a little bit.  It’ll help you pass.”           

Trowa felt his throat close at the word.  Lena didn’t notice.           

“Now just close your eyes and hold still.”

Trowa closed his eyes, if only to keep from getting sick or getting poked in the eye.  Lena took her time and Trowa tried not to guess what she was doing as she brushed something not quite powder over the skin of his face, smoothed something else over the lids of his eyes and then just about his lashes, and dabbed something along the hollows of his cheeks and jaw.

“Open your eyes and look up.”  Trowa did so, although he still flinched as the stiff brush came near his eyes.  His lashes felt thick and heavy when it pulled away.  “Don’t blink and open your mouth a little.”           

“Open my mouth?”           

“Not like ‘ah’ open.  Just part your lips.”  Trowa did so, and tried not to frown or bite her fingers as she applied lipstick to his lips.  Somehow, that seemed to be the worst.  It completed the unnatural film that seemed to cover his face like a mask.  With it, and the heels that gave him a roll to his hips and the top and shirt that showed off all the curves that were wrong and hated, Trowa felt like he was suffocating.           

_ One night.  I can do it for one night.  _

Finally, Lena sat back.  “Alright.  Very nice, if I do say so myself. We’ll see what Une says.  Now get up and run the routine again.”

This time, there was no escaping the mirror.  When Trowa stood and took his place for the start of the routine, he was hit full force with his reflection.  He strangled down a noise.  He barely recognized himself, and honestly wasn’t sure that he wanted to.  The outfit showed everything that Trowa normally tried to hide.  The rich red shirt was slit from hem to breast bone, clinging just enough to pull the slit open and show off most of his abdomen.  It was sleeveless as well, only having thin straps that somehow made the slender slope of his shoulders all the more pronounced.  Thankfully, the shirt didn’t dip low enough to show cleavage, but it perfectly suggested it was there.

The skirt was just as bad.  With the hem lowered, it didn’t ride quite as high but it still hovered above his knees.  Since it flared out, it seemed a little shorter.  The fabric was thin and shiny, and when he moved, it moved with him, wrapping around his skin.  Worst of all, he couldn’t wear his boxers with it.  The skirt was just too short, and somehow Lena hadn’t thought to bring something to match the bra.  He wasn’t sure if it would be better if she had.

And Trowa’s face.  That might have been the most surprising.  Lena had somehow managed to soften his features.  Through touches of pale reds and golds that complimented the outfit, and a tone that somehow carved out the structure of his face, she had managed to change him.  Not a lot.  Just enough.  Just enough that if he hadn’t known differently, he would have seen a woman in the mirror.  A woman with soft reddish hair brushing one cheek on one side of her face and cropped boyish-short on the other. 

For a moment, looking at the woman staring back at him, he could forget that this wasn’t supposed to happen.  He could forget that he wasn’t supposed to fill the bust of a shirt so naturally, or stand so casually in high heels.  He could look at her and think she was pretty.  Attractive.  Right.

And then he felt sick.

“Come on, we don’t have a lot of time.”  Trowa flinched at the sound of Lena’s voice, the lump in his throat disappearing out of surprise alone.  He looked at her, and he remember there was a reason for this.  It was just for one night.  All part of the job.  No one would know anything but that.  

Taking a slow, steading breath, Trowa looked at his reflection once more.  He shoved down the nausea with a hard shake of his head and focused.

Trowa danced flawlessly.  Once, twice, three times.  By then, Une had returned.  She wasn’t alone this time.

“Holy shit,” someone breathed.  It took a moment for Trowa to recognize the voice.  He stopped dead and stared at Duo’s—at all of their reflections in the mirror.  Their expressions were difficult to read.

_ One night, just one night.  Just one. _

“Who are the boys,” Lena asked after she had turned the music down.  Trowa stared resolutely ahead as Une led them over.

“Four of the other operatives, surveillance and backup,” she answerd.  Une gestured to each in turn.  “Heero Yuy, Duo Maxwell, Chang Wufei, and Zechs Merquise.  Gentlemen, this is Lena Crawford.”

“I recognize most of those names,” Lena said with a knowing smile.  They weren’t much of a secret anymore.  “Pleasure, boys.”

Duo was the only one who shook her hand, but he looked between her, Une and Trowa.  “So this is the dance instructor”

“Yes, Duo, and she’s done a hell of a job, as I expected and I’m sure you can see,” Une said warningly.

Duo glanced at Trowa again.  The expression he had was one Trowa had never seen before.  Open mouth, wide-eyed, but not smiling.  Not teasing.  Something…else.  Trowa swallowed but glared at him.

“Yeah, yeah I see.”

“You did a great job, Lena,” Une said.  “He looks perfect and I appreciate the work on the time frame.”

“Not a problem, he was an easy one.  He’s all yours.”  Smiling, Lena went back to her stereo, turned it off, and set it aside before stuffing everything back in her bag.  She zipped it up, shouldered it, and lifted her stereo onto her shoulder.  “I’ll see myself out,” she said, nodding to each of them.  She jerked her head at Trowa.  “Remember, heel.”

“Heel up,” Trowa said quietly.

“Damn right.  You know my number if you ever need me again, Ms. Une.”

“Let me walk you out and call you a cab, Lena.”

“A cab would be nice.  But is it smart to leave the boys alone?”

“They behave.  Usually.  I trust they can manage ten minutes,” Une said, glancing back at them.  She frowned warningly before walking Lena out of the room.  She managed to take the stereo from Lena and carry it for her by the time they reached the door. 

A heavy, awkward silence settled once the door closed.  Trowa let it drag, staring into the mirror and avoiding their looks with the utmost effort.  He breathed deeply through his nose, willing control and know that it was slipping through his fingers.

Duo finally broke the silence with a clearing of his throat.  “Um so.  You, um, you look—”

Trowa rounded on him, teeth bared.  Duo swallowed his words and stepped back.

“None a word.  Not one.  Don’t even snigger, or I’ll cut off that braid and choke you with it.”

“I wasn’t gonna—”

“I’ll just bet you weren’t.”

Duo opened his mouth, and then closed it when Heero stepped on his foot.  Apart from slightly wider eyes, Heero didn’t seem to notice a change in Trowa.  His voice certainly didn’t seem any different, although Trowa noticed that Heero’s eyes occasionally lingered on him.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” Heero said.  “The ride is long, almost three hours.  We’ll have finally prep while we’re waiting out the last bit.”

“Understood,” Trowa said simply.

“We just need clearance from Une,” Zechs said.  He also managed to keep his voice natural, although not quite as well.  Trowa nodded.

Une returned within ten minutes, carrying a black coat over her arm.  None of them moved, and the conversation had quickly died.  She blinked and shook her head.

“You’re clear to go,” Une said, deciding not to ask about the statue-standing.  “I suggest you go out the back.  Prevent questions or attention.”

Heero nodded once.  “Yes ma’am.”

“Trowa,” she called as they filed out.  Trowa stopped near her.  She shook the coat out and draped it over his shoulders.  It went down to nearly his knees.  “For you.  It’s cold tonight and it should fit.  There’s a pad of paper and a pen in one of the pockets.  Use them as you see fit.”

Trowa nodded, slipping immediately into Tracy.  He tugged the coat on and reminded himself that he was a mute, a good girl that never caused trouble but was fire on the dance floor.  She’d love an outfit like this and a stage to spread out on.  He shivered.

“Good luck, I have faith in you.”

_ That makes one of us. _

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trowa goes undercover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violent and assault in this chapter.

Going out the back had been a brilliant idea.  They met no one, so there were no stares or comments or questions.  Trowa was sure there would have been questions, since it wasn’t every day a Preventer had to dress up quite like this for a job.  The parking lot was also empty when they arrived, minus one man waiting beside a van.  Trowa vaguely recognized him.  Someone on his floor, but on a different shift.  Trowa usually saw him as he was going on.  He finally managed to pull up the name.  Leon.

Leon stared down at them as they approached.  He had easy inches on Zechs, and quite a bit of muscle on Heero.  He would have look appropriately intimidating if it weren’t for the freckles and mop of curly red hair.           

He gave Trowa an uncomfortably long once over before looking at Heero.  “Van’s all set.  Ready to roll?”           

Heero nodded.  “You have the address?”  Leon smiled and tapped his temple.           

“Route too, right up here.  We should be there in under three hours, three if we hit heavy traffic.”           

“Let’s go then.”           

Leon headed around the van to the driver’s seat.  Zechs climbed into the passenger seat and the rest of them headed for the sliding side door on the side.  Heero opened it and then climbed inside.  Duo and Wufei climbed in, leaving Wufei for last.  Heero and Trowa stared at each other for a moment before both glancing down at his shoes.  Heero hesitated and then reached towards Trowa, offering a hand.  Trowa shook his head.  Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the edges of the door and hoisted himself in.  His heel slip.

By the time Duo and Wufei looked at him to check he was okay, Trowa had managed to steady himself.  Partly thanks to Heero’s hand on his back.  Trowa didn’t shrug it off.

The back of the van was dark, and even darker when Heero shut the sliding door.  Monitors and narrow stations lined either side, with bolted chairs at each one.  It made the entire area far too cramped for four people, but in a few hours there would only be three.  Then it would be just a little cramped.           

“Here,” Duo said, patting the chair nearest his.  “Take the weight off.  It’s a long ride.”  Trowa nodded his thanks and sank into the chair, pulling the edges of the coat tight over his legs.  Heero leaned towards a small window that connected the back of the van to the front of it.  He spoke to Leon and Zechs for a moment before stepping back.

“Alright, let’s go.”  Leon waited until Heero was in his own chair before turning over the engine.  Trowa gripped the arms of his chair when the van suddenly accelerated.  It was only then that he noticed there was no seatbelt.  He wondered if Leon knew.

Without any windows, or any other major source of light minus the displays of the monitors and electronics, Trowa felt the exhaustion suddenly press on him.  He had been too anxious, too keyed up, for too long.  It wasn’t a good idea to sleep directly before a mission, but it would be worse to walk into it physically and emotionally exhausted.  Two-and-a-half to three hours was just enough time to, if not sleep, rest his brain and body enough for efficient functioning.  Shifting in the chair and crossing his arms over his stomach, Trowa tilted his head back—he needed to be mindful of the makeup because he sure as hell couldn’t fix it—and sank into a doze.

He was careful not to go too deep.  Not deep enough to dream.  Just enough to rest and recharge.           

Trowa could still hear snatches of conversation, although the faded to nothingness when he passed a little too close to actual sleep.  He lost all sense of time, and it wasn’t until the van came to a sudden, jerking stop that Trowa fully came out of it.  Someone put a hand on Trowa’s shoulder to stop him from toppling forward.           

“You’re awake, then,” Wufei asked.  Trowa opened his eyes and nodded, wincing.  Someone had found the switch for the bare-bulb overhead.           

“Yeah.  Nice brakes.”           

“The best,” Wufei said with a small smile.  “We’re about five blocks out.  Duo’s going to make a substance run, you want anything?”

Trowa still felt nauseous.  He shook his head.  Wufei frowned.

“You sure?  You’re not going to get a chance to eat again for a while.”

“I’m sure.  Thanks.”  Wufei sighed but nodded, turning to Duo who was crouched by the door.  He waved him off.  Duo smiled and winked before sliding open the door and hopping out.  Heero shut it after him.  Trowa sat up and stretched, grimacing as his back popped and complained.  He watched Heero and Wufei turn their attention to the equipment, booting it up, checking audio and video feeds.  There was nothing Trowa could help with.  Trowa patted the coat pockets, instead.  He found the pad of paper Une had mentioned, complete with pen.  He took it out and looked it over.  It was far too pristine for Tracy.  She would have used it all day every day, for everything.  Trowa flipped it open and tore out a couple of pages, leaving the paper remains in the coiled wire.  He balled the paper up and stuffed it in his pocket.  He twisted the thin cardboard cover, just enough to give it some wrinkles and bend the corners.  Make it look used.

Trowa was working on some writing—shopping lists, brief conversations, even a couple of turn downs—making obvious mistakes and scratches when Zechs climbed into the bag.  He pressed close to Trowa and peered over his shoulder.

“Not bad,” he said.  “I definitely looks like a used notebook.  Although I’m not sure ladies use that sort of language.”

“You haven’t met my sister, have you,” Trowa asked.  Zechs shook his head.  “Women curse, even mute women.  If you’d like a demonstration, just tell them you disapprove.”

Zechs chuckled.  “Fair enough.  You set?  We’ve got audio and visual to hook you up with.”  Trowa gave the notebook one more critical look before tucking it and the pen back in his pocket.  He shifted around in the chair as Zechs sat down in the chair Duo had left.  He pulled out a small, carefully built box.

“This,” Zechs said as he pulled a pearl earring from the box’s internal padding, “is your two-way receiver.  Range is about twenty city blocks if all the variables are good.  We should be okay within five to ten.  It’ll transmit the audio for us to record here and let us talk with you.  Volumes quiet, so no one should hear it, but we’ll communicate sparingly.”  Zechs held it out to him.  Trowa took it carefully and turned it over in his fingers.

“Got a safety pin?”                      

“And a lighter.”  Zechs pulled out a lighter and a small bag of safety pins from his pocket.           

“Great,” Trowa said and tilted his head.           

Zechs took his time warming the end of one of the safety pins with the lighter.  He brushed back Trowa’s hair and held his chin carefully.  He didn’t warn Trowa before he forced the point of the pin through Trowa’s earlobe.  Trowa appreciated that.  The warning might have made the sting worse.           

Zechs cleaned up the little bit of blood with a tissue before letting Trowa insert the earring and secure it with the metal back.  Somehow wearing the earring was more painful than getting the piercing.           

“One down, one to go,” Zechs said.  Trowa sighed and tilted his head the other way.  When Zechs was done, and Trowa had inserted the other earring, he put the safety pin back in the bag.  “I’d take those out right after the mission and give the holes a good soak and some antiseptic.  You don’t want a piercing infection.”           

“Because you would know.”           

“I would actually,” Zechs said, and let the matter drop.  He pulled out another piece of equipment from the padding.  It was a pin, a simple gold Celtic cross with the some fairly good fake gemstones embedded in it.  “This is your camera.  It’s extremely delicate and sensitive so please be careful.”           

“I’ll leave it alone after I get it on.”  Nodding, Zechs leaned forward.  He took hold of Trowa’s coat.  Trowa caught his wrist.  “I can put on a pin, you know.”           

Zechs blinked, and Trowa swore he blushed.  But he sat back and nodded.  “You can, just be careful.”  Zechs handed the delicate pin to him.  Trowa looked it over; the fake gemstones probably hid the camera.  He set it down carefully before unzipping the top of his coat.  He pulled the fabric aside enough to attach the pin carefully to his top, just near on the straps.  It was cold in the van, though, so Trowa zipped it back up quickly.

The van door suddenly slid open and Duo heaved himself inside, plastic bag on each arm.  Heero helped him before he managed to hurt himself.  He slid the door closed while Duo dropped the bags on the floor of the van and started passing out bottles, cans, and bars.           

“You’d think a supposed twenty-four-hour convenience store would keep its sandwich counter open at eight, but nope.  It’s not like people want BLTs after seven pm, am I right,” Duo grumbled.           

“So what’d you get,” Heero asked.

“What I could.  Mostly protein bars and shit.  Got plenty of water.”

Heero frowned as Duo tossed him a protein bar.  He set it down before picking up a can and eyeing it suspiciously.  He cracked it open and took a careful sip.  He grimaced.           

“The hell is this?”

“Energy drink,” Duo said simply as he opened his own.  Wufei rolled his eyes and opened a bottle of water from him and Zechs.  “It’s going to be boring as fuck, figured it’d be good for keeping us awake.”           

“It’s nothing but sugar, caffeine, and words you can’t pronounce,” Wufei said.           

“Which is why it keeps you awake.”           

“And probably poisons you,” Wufei warned.           

“No one is making you drink it.”           

“I’d love to see you try.”

“Is this what you’ve been drinking,” Heero asked, interrupting them.  He was reading down the ingredient list, frowning.  “No wonder you don’t sleep.”           

Duo batted his eyes.  “You weren’t complaining last night.”           

“Not on the job, please,” Leon called from the cab.  Duo smirked.           

“I should head out,” Trowa said, standing and interrupting whatever Duo was about to say.  Wufei blinked but glanced down at his watch.           

“Yeah, it’s time,” he agreed.  Wufei nudged Heero out of the way of the door and opened it.  Trowa slipped between them, shivering from the cold that seeped in.  “We’ll establish contact in three minutes.”           

Trowa nodded, slipping back into Tracy.  He accepted Wufei’s hand as he dropped out of the van carefully.  Even with the extra support, his legs hurt when the heels hit the pavement.           

“Target is six blocks south,” Heero said, nodding down the street.  “Follow this straight.  There’ll be one building on the right with a green light.  Take the alley on the right just before the light.  It dead-ends and there will be red graffiti on the wall.  One door on the left side of the alley.  That’s the one you want.”           

Trowa nodded once.           

“Be careful,” Wufei said.  “Stay alert.”           

He always did.  Trowa inclined his head slightly before turning.  He didn’t even wait for the door to close behind him before heading down the street Heero had indicated.           

The buildings lining the street in this area were unusually old and dilapidated.  Possibly war torn; Trowa didn’t know much about this city, but it was clear he was not in the better part of it.  He walked carefully, mindful of cracks and holes that could break his ankle and stepping over bottles and debris.  In the not-so-distant-distance, a police siren shriek and there was the echoing pop that might have been a bullet. As he passed a building, a couple screamed at each other above his head.  Then there was the crash of breaking china.           

A number of streetlights were out, making him walk through long stretches of near darkness before he hit the next light.  With the limited light, though, Trowa had an excellent view of the clear winter sky.  If he was inclined to look.  He wasn’t.  The street was quiet but not completely empty.  Trowa looked straight ahead and walked with purpose.           

If anyone followed him, he would hear them first, even over the rhythmic click, click of his heels.           

As he neared the sixth block, Trowa started to really feel the cold.  It made him stumble some in the heels.  He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and rolled his shoulders forward as the wind picked up.  It didn’t help.  A constant stream of white puffed from his nose and mouth, and the skin of his face was tight with the cold.  Finally, though he saw the green light Heero had mentioned.  He turned into the alley on the right just before it.           

The alley was almost too dark to see in, but as Trowa moved carefully into it, he could make out graffiti on the back wall.  He also caught the shape of a door handle on his left. As he neared it, he heard the distinct snap of ice splintering under his heels. Trowa walked carefully.  The metal handle was cold, but it was unlocked.  Trowa yanked the door opened and slipped in.           

Hot air rolled over him.  The sudden smack of it made Trowa’s skin hurt and he almost backed into the door behind him.  He fought the urge to rub his cheek, remembering the makeup he couldn’t fix.  After a few seconds of exposure, the heat felt a little more pleasant.  Trowa stepped away from the door and further into the hall, unzipping his coat.           

“Excellent,” Duo murmured in his ear.  Trowa nearly jumped _.  Earring, two-way, relax. _  “We’ve got visual.”

Trowa took his time moving along the hall, taking in as much as he could.  Everything was done in red or black, and the whole place seemed to ride a careful balanced between tasteful and lurid; admittedly, it leaned a bit more towards the former.  The lamps from the ceiling poured out red light through frosted red glass, giving the black wood furniture an oddly bloody finish.  Through the walls, he could hear fast music and feel the heavier beats through the floor.  Somewhere, a woman laughed, but it was high and shrill and fake.  He shuddered.           

Halfway down the hall, when Trowa had finally managed to pick through the mess of scents that made his nose wrinkle—too much perfume mixed with alcohol, cigar smoke, and human musk—a man stumbled out of a door.  Trowa supposed it was meant to be “hidden,” except it was a noticeably different shade of red from the rest of the wall.           

“For the love of god, tell me you’re Tracy,” he gasped.

Trowa hadn’t been sure what to expect from the owner and manager of a high class strip club, but this man wasn’t it.  Robert, as he was sure that who it was now, only had to be about ten years older than Trowa himself.  That or he aged remarkably well.  He wore what would have been a well-tailored suit if it wasn’t so badly wrinkled.  Trowa got the impression that he had slept in it recently.  Robert’s ash-blond hair stuck up in all the wrong places, and Trowa knew from experience—and from the way the spikes caught the light—that was the effect of running hands through product-smoothed hair. 

If he had seen the man on the street, Trowa would have thought he was a very agitated accountant.           

“You are Tracy, right,” he nearly begged.           

Putting on his best look of startlement, Trowa fumbled frantically with his pocket.  He pulled out the notebook and then dropped it.  Robert picked it up and then prompty dropped it himself.  Trowa scooped it up and flipped to a blank page.  He pulled off the pen cap with his teeth and started writing.           

**_Yes, I’m Tracy.  Are you Robert?_ **  Trowa was careful to make his own writing a little more fluid, a little more curved.  He showed the notebook to Robert.

Robert let out a sigh of relief.  “Oh thank god,” he said, reaching out and shaking Trowa’s hand.  He shook Trowa’s arm along with it.  “Yeah, I’m Robery.  I own and run this club, but I’m sure Lena told you that.”           

Trowa wrenched his arm back, wrote some more, and showed him.   ** _Yes, she did._**            

“Yeah, I’m really sorry.  I’m sure it’s irritating writing everything down, but I know about three things in sign language, and two of them aren’t exactly polite,” Robert said, running a hand along his neck.  Trowa managed not to roll his eyes and smiled instead.  “I’d get a translator, except I don’t know any and this came really last minute.”

**_Don’t worry about it, I don’t mind at all._ ** ****

“I really appreciate you filling in for Lena.  I’m sure this isn’t how you wanted to spend your Friday night, but I’m desperate.  Lena picked the worst time to get sick.  Everyone is spick.  They’ve picked up whatever is flying around the city right now.  Half the girls can’t be here.  At least Lena had the sense to call someone, and you definitely look the part.”           

Trowa blushed, and it wasn’t entirely fake.           

“Lena’s got her head on, and she knows her shit, so I’m sure you’re amazing.”           

**_Happy to help her out.  Just show me what’s what._ ** ****

Robert smiled and put an arm around her shoulder.  Trowa had made Tracy something of a physical person, so he smiled and forced himself not to tense as Robert led him down the hall.  It was one night, just one night, and then he’d never see this man again.           

“You’re on in about ten minutes,” Robert explained.  “I’ll drop you off at the dressing room so you can freshen up or whatever.  You can leave your coat there, nothing will happen to it, I promise.  Security is a top priority.  Down that hall—”  Trowa turned his head to mark the hallway. “—is the lounge area.  That’s where the stage is and the tables and chairs.  Everything is pretty self-explanatory.  After your number, I ask that you mingle.  You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but you do need to be there for them to see you.”           

_Of course I do…_ Trowa nodded once.           

“You’ll get on stage for your performance through this door here.  Music is already set up.  Lena called me your stuff and I got it all programmed.  Just hit play and you’re good to go.”           

Seemed easy enough.

“You can go straight off the stage or come back here first and then head out.  I’m sure Lena told you about the eye candy policy?”  Trowa nodded.  “Perfect.  You call the shot then.  Anyone does something that makes you uncomfortable, just get one of the boys on security.  They look like misplaced government body guards, you can’t miss them.”           

They stopped in front of another red door.  Robert opened it and let Trowa go inside first.  Trowa assumed it was the dressing room, and it was about as different from the rest of the club as it could be.  The girls must have brought in their own furniture because it housed an odd but comfortable assortment of chairs, ottomans, and small couches.  The walls were still red, but there were so many hooks and hangers on the walls, displaying outfits or costumes, that the color faded.  Along one wall as a line of mirrors and a very long, very cluttered vanity.           

“Make-up’s over there, somewhere.  Don’t ask me, the girls run this spot, doesn’t make sense to me at all.  Remember you’re on in ten.  After your performance, just mingle or relax or whatever.  Just keep an eye out and let the boys know if someone mess with you. Then after the hour, you’re free to go.”           

Trowa had just been find a clear spot on the couch to drape his coat when Robert finished with that.  He looked at him over his shoulder, then pulled out the notebook again.           

**_I thought I had Lena’s shift?_ ** ****

“Well, you do, but I did get one of the girls to come in early, so you’ll only need to take the first part of it.  She said she’s got the rest.  Needs the extra income.  She won’t be here for another hour though.  Hour and a half probably.  I mean, you can stay if you want, but you’re under no obligation.”           

Trowa bit back the urge to frown.  Would it look suspicious if he insisted that no one else had to come in early, that he could take her shift just fine?   _Probably,_ he decided after quick but careful deliberation.  Staying after the other girl came would look just as bad, which meant he would have to go.  Which meant that he had an hour and a half to collect what Preventer needed.  He had no idea how obvious Kader was in these meetings, or if they were even in English.  Trowa had been banking on a full night of time.           

But he was nothing if not adaptable.  He smiled at Robert, tilting his head slightly to the side as he scrawled out his thanks.

**_Oh that’s very kind of you.  Thank you._ ** ****

“No need for thanks,” Robert said, waving him off.  “You’ll probably prefer it this way.  I’m sure they’ll love you, but probably too much.  And if you’re not used to it, it can be a little overwhelming.  Some of them can be a little nasty, though, to new girls.” 

Trowa tucked that thought away for safe keeping.  The last thing he needed was nastiness to get in the way of the job.           

Robert looked at his watch.  “Alright, I’ll let you get ready.  I’ve got financial stuff to finish in my office.  Alexis is the girl taking the rest of Lena’s shift.  She’ll let you know when she’s here and then you can head out, alright?”  Trowa nodded.  “Good luck, then.  Break a leg, and thanks again for coming in for Lena”           

Trowa waited until the door was closed and he was sure Robert had moved away.  He pressed an ear (carefully of course) to the door just to be sure.  No muttering, but the sound of footsteps moving away.  Sighing, Trowa stepped back.  He pulled a cushioned tool out from under the vanity table and sat down.  He rubbed his ankle for a moment.  The skin was getting raw from the strap.           

“No touch up,” Duo asked over the two-way, the faintest hint of a laugh in his voice.  Trowa shifted around to face the mirror, so Duo could be sure to see him glower at the camera.  “Just asking.  You’re a very convincing mute, you know.”           

_Duo, when I get back to the van--_  Trowa sighed, closing his eyes and letting the thought go.  He needed control.  He glanced over at a clock on the corner of the vanity.  Three minutes left in his ten.   _Time to get this over with._            

The hallway outside the dressing room was still empty when Trowa slipped out.  He couldn’t quite place why the lack of movement or people bothered him so, but Trowa pushed the unease aside.  He needed to focus.  Heading down the hall, Trowa found the door Robert had indicated and headed backstage.           

Behind the curtain, Trowa could hear low chatter and clinking of glasses.  There were some light giggles, but they were few and far between.  Trowa thought he caught about three different female voices, and wondered how many women were usually there.  Trowa stood by the stereo and for a moment imagined the layout of the lounge through the pictures he had seen in the briefing.  No matter how he tried, though, he couldn’t quite get the voices and the images he remembered to match up in a full picture, and somehow that inability to really visualize it—to measure his audience and the space in his head—knotted his stomach.  When Trowa reached for the play button, his fingers trembled.  Trowa pulled them back and gripped them.           

_I’m not nervous._ He couldn’t be nervous.  Trowa had infiltrated worse places than this.  He had had guns held to his head and heard the grind of the chamber as it rotated.  He had held guns to people’s heads, to his friends’ heads, in front of soldiers that Trowa could show no hesitation in front of.  Trowa had been shot, captured, nearly discovered, and blown up.  He had been through so much worse than this.  A skirt and a pair of heels really couldn’t make that much of a difference.  Could it?           

Trowa fought down a shudder and knew that it could.  He tapped into the reserve he always had for moments like this, grinding his teeth as he filled himself with steel.  He took a slow breath, pressed play, and stepped out on stage.           

There were eyes everywhere.  Waitresses or waiters, tilting their heads in mild appraisal.  Men in expertly tailored suits, bent over drinks or leaning back in their chairs as they ran their eyes over his curls.  Girls draped over their shoulders or in their laps, curious at the temporary help’s skill.  The singular focus on _him_ made the tight nervous knot in his stomach worse.  He could feel the color in his face draining behind his makeup.            

Then Trowa heard it: the five-second cue that Lena had drilled into him.  That one beat that started his internal countdown to his opening move.  Trowa latched out it, and the nervous know when away.  He shifted his foot, swept out an arm, and spun into the opening move.  There was a wave of whistling and humming appreciation that Trowa ignored, but as the colors blurred and swirled past him, Trowa saw him.  He was just to the right of the stage, at a table with two other men.  Kader.           

Fahd Kader sipped his drink with the slow deliberateness of someone pretending to not pay attention.  Trowa wasn’t fooled.  As he danced, he felt Kader’s attention.  A little too focused, a little too hard.  At one part of the routine, Trowa found himself staring back, looking eyes with Kader’s dark ones.  Trowa held it until the next spin.

Lena had told him to flavor it, make it his own.  A step here, a roll of the hips there.  That was what got people’s attention, and somehow, Trowa found he wanted to keep Kader’s attention.  Because that’s what Tracy would do.  The flavor he added got low rumbling approval, enough to almost make Trowa trip and stop.  He forced himself to move, to roll his stomach and arch his back.  To get that attention, Kader’s attention.  Heavy and constant as it was, Trowa needed it.  Tracy needed it.  She craved it, and Trowa needed him distracted, he told himself.  It would make the job easier.  Make him unable to keep up his guard.           

So Trowa kept going, trying to lock eyes with Kader every chance he got.  Kader let him, staring unblinking and unsmiling at Trowa, right up until the end of the performance.           

Then Kader smiled.  It was a slow curl of the corner of his lips.  Knowing and predatory.           

Trowa nearly tripped.

A wave of whistles and catcalls washed over Trowa as the song finished.  Flushing, and not just from exertion, Trowa held the final pose for a few brutal seconds and then got off the stage.  Somehow, he managed not to run.  The noise followed him back stage, as did that smile.  The feeling of it lingered, making Trowa shivered.  The flavor had been a bad idea, but he couldn’t take it back now.  Running a hand through his hair, Trowa hurried back to the dressing room.  He wanted to breathe—and get his notebook—before heading out.           

“That’s it for the dancing, right,” Duo asked over the two-way, “because that bit of feed made me seriously nauseous.”           

Trowa frowned.  He went to where he’d left his notebook on the vanity.  Flipping open a new page, Trowa wrote down a few choices words before holding the notebook out in front him.  Exactly where he knew Duo would be able to read it.  Someone, probably Heero, chuckled over the feed.           

“Hey, I do not deserve that kind of language,” Duo said.           

“Yeah, you did,” Heero said faintly.           

“Is it my fault that was more nauseating than tea cups at a shitty carnival?”           

_Yes._  Trowa considered throwing in a crude gesture for good measure but restrained himself.  He was tired, frustrated, and unnerved.  It wasn’t fair for him to take it out on Duo.  The sooner this night was over the better; he would be more like himself and not fight so much for control.  Or at least not fight so much more.            

Trowa had a better measure of control over himself when finally left the dressing room again and headed out to the main lounge.  The closer he got to it, the more he forced his shoulders and expression to relax.  Tracy wouldn’t be nervous.  She enjoyed the attention, and while she might not want to talk to anyone, she wouldn’t be embarrassed.  By the time Trowa had reached the lounge, he had a small, self-satisfied smile on his face.           

He paused and observed the room with honest curiosity.  The walls were, unsurprisingly, red but a dark shade than the halls backstage or the dressing room.  The black carpet matched it much better out here.  Along the back wall of the lounge stretched a bar.  Trowa walked towards it, weaving his way through black-wooden tabkles and matching, red-cushioned chairs.  He smiled when he dared. Most of the men, easily twice his age, smiled back before returning to their conversations or the girls besides them or in their laps.  A few men whistled and leered.  One actually licked his lips as Trowa passed.  No one touched him however.  They must have all been informed of the eye candy policy.  Which was good; Trowa didn’t want to blow his cover by punching someone, and he didn’t think he could handle groping.           

Trowa continued towards the bar.  He realized as he neared that there were no stools.  There weren’t even bottles.  There were plenty of glasses, though.           

The bartender manning it smiled at him.  “Tracy, right?”           

Trowa nodded, letting the smile widen.  The bartender nodded.           

“Thought so.  Boss told us we’d have a temp tonight,” he said as he cleaned a glass.  “You were really good up there.”           

Trowa managed a satisfied smile before putting the notebook down on the bar.  He scribbled out a thank you and turned it towards the bartender.  He smiled in return.           

“I’m Anthony, by the way,” he said after stacking a freshly polished glass.  He shook Trowa’s hand; Trowa kept his grip looser than he preferred. “Fancy a glass of water?” 

**_Water would be fantastic, thanks._ ** ****

“Coming right up.”  Trowa leaned against the bar as he waited and watched the lounge.  Most of the men had since lost interest in him, but a few were still eyeing him, lips pressed tight to their glasses or leaning in close to each other as they spoke.  Trowa didn’t want to know what they were thinking or discussing.           

His water appeared at his elbow.  Trowa smiled at Anthony before taking it and sipping it.  He continued to look around, finally spotting his target.           

Kader had been one of the few men not following him with his eyes when Trowa had entered the lounge.  He had been too deep in conversation.  Still was, in fact, leaning across the table until he was only inches away from the two men sitting with him.  Their drinks stood abandoned, in danger of being knocked over by a careless gesture.  Trowa forced himself to look away from them after less than thirty seconds of looking.  Any longer would be focusing, and focusing was suspicious.           

“Good vantage point, even if the tables,” Duo said, careful to keep anything to being overheard.  Trowa sipped his water and pretended to be interested in a distant group of gentle man.  Duo suddenly cursed.  “Bastards moved, they’re blocking the view.  Can you get closer?”           

Trowa continued to sip his water.  By the time he was finished it, he had decided on which table to move to.  He set down the empty glass and picked up the pad.  After writing for a moment, he slid it to Anthony.           

**_I know some of the girls are at tables, so is it okay if I sit down somewhere?  These heels are murder._ ** ****

“Go for it, invite someone over if you want, or kick them out since you’re the EC.  Do you want a refill?”           

**_Not right now.  Thanks though._ ** ****

Trowa turned and wandered casually between the tables, one again earning a few looks and whistles.  He did his best to look casual as he headed for the table, considering two others before finally opting for his choice.  Trowa pulled out a chair at the empty table two tables away from Kader’s.  He settled into the chair, set the pad down in front of him and tapped it with his pen, “thinking.”           

Two or three gentlemen came over, and it took several minutes of tapping and blatant ignoring before they decided to give up.           

“Much better,” Duo said, “and even better since the pervs backed off.”  Trowa shifted some before starting to write random notes.  “Shift a little to your right.”  Trowa, leaning his chin on his fits, shifted in the chair as if to get more comfortable.  “Perfect.  Dead center, stay right there.  Alright, now we wait.  Maybe… Hey Heero, can we adjust the levels to pick them up better?”           

Trowa doubted it.  If they adjusted it too much, they’d pick up nothing but the background noise of the club.  As it was, Trowa could barely hear them, and he was hardly ten feet away.  That didn’t stop him from trying to, however.  His eyes narrowed as he tried to pick up on their voices.  It was difficult.  If he moved too soon, they could catch on that Trowa wasn’t just there to rest his feet.  He waited a couple minutes, writing out statistics from the war before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  He rose and walked back to the bar.           

When Trowa returned with fresh water, he picked a closer chair.  Not the best angle for video, but the extra inches might pick up more audible.           

It was just enough.           

“No, I’m afraid you don’t understand and it’s beginning to aggravate me.”  It wasn’t the first time that Trowa had heard Kader’s voice, but the nearness of the deep baritone made it seem entirely new.  There was power in that voice, and a habit of being obeyed.  The two men with him seemed to know that.”           

“My lord. We—”           

“I have warned you, repeatedly, about the consequences of calling me that, haven’t I?”           

“I, yes, yes sir.  I apologized.  We just assumed—”           

“And therein lies the problem,” Kader said.  Rubbing his eyes, he reached over and took his glass.  Kader drained most of it in a single gulp.  “Explain the situation.”           

The two looked at each other before the first started to explain.  “People are, people are asking questions.”           

“What sort of people?”           

“Insiders.  People who shouldn’t be asking anything at all,” the second one said.  Kader frowned.           

“What sort of questions?”           

“What have we been up to?  Where have we been?  How’s the information getting out?  Where are the finances going?  We’ve been careful, small bits in small moments just like you said, but they’re getting suspicious.”           

“You should be covering your tracks better.”           

“We’ve been doing the best we can,” the first said.  “We don’t have the resources these people do.  We certainly don’t have the money to distract the hounds they’re sending.”  Trowa sipped his water, setting the glass down calmly before turning back to his notebook.  This time, in between likes of nonsense and statistics, he started taking notes.  Just in case the feed wasn’t good enough.           

“What do you expect from me?  Further protection?  Because you are no closer to earning it than you were when I first contacted you,” Kader said quietly.  One of the other two men tensed, and Trowa kept his writing hand relaxed and moving.           

“We’ve done everything you asked,” the tensed one hissed.  “Gotten everything you needed.  Passports.  Chemical ingredients.  Schematics.”   _Oh I hope they got that on the tape._ Trowa hesitated and then shifted in his seat for a better angle.           

“Say that a little louder,” Kader said, and the pitch in his voice was nothing short than a growl.  “I’m looking for some stress relief.”  The other man stamped lightly on the less-controlled one’s foot.  He glared and whispered something angrily in a language that Trowa didn’t know.  Kader waited for the hissing whispers to subside.  “What you have done, I have acknowledged and rewarded.  Your failures, though, outnumber your successes.  By quite a bit.”           

“We understand that sir,” the second one began.  “Our failing are our own fault and you do not forgive them.  Nor should you.  But can you not take into account how instrumental our success have been?  You said it yourself, we have done more to push your plan forward than any, simply because of what we can, and have gotten you.  We want to help you, to help our country, our kind.  But we can’t do that if we’re caught.”           

“There are others,” he said dismissively.           

“But none of them came forward like we did.  Have been so open with their allegiance to you and the cause.”  Kader made a quite noise of acknowledgement.  “We want to help, sir, we want to keep helping.  We can’t do that if they keep us from moving.”       

Kader said nothing, long enough that Trowa chanced the briefest and subtlest glance he could in his direction.  Kader was sitting back, balancing the chair on its rear legs slightly.  He held his empty glass in his hand, rolling the stem between his fingers.  His expression was closed but thoughtful.  Then his gaze shifted and for the smallest moment, Trowa thought Kader caught his eye.  Caught his eye and smiled a pale ghost of that predatory smile from before.           

Trowa shifted his eyes away, picking up his own glass.           

Kader sat forward and set his glass down with a soft think.  The smile he had on when Trowa dared to look again was small and friendlier.           

“You should get lessons from your friend,” Kader told the other one.  “He is much more efficient at getting what he wants.  I’ll see what I can do for you both.”  Both men seemed to relax.  “Getting the heat off of you won’t be too difficult.  By the time we meet again, they’ll have backed off.  I promise.”           

“How will we know it’s safe to meet again?”           

“How can we contact you?”           

“You don’t.  I contact you,” Kader reminded.           

“Yes sir.”           

“Now, let’s finish up the finer points of this meeting.  I’d like to get home before the roads freeze.”           

Trowa, sipping his drinks and jotting down notes, listened closely.  He didn’t need to understand the finger points of the conversation to know it was a business dealing.  Kader was buying weapons and tech.  He wasn’t sure what company the men worked for, but it was one with questionable ties.  Weapons of mass destruction, after all, were rarely used for good, and Trowa would know.  He had piloted one.           

He nearly choked on his drink when Trowa managed to pull enough information together to realize that a large portion of the technology and schematics Kader was interested in were for mobile suits.  Not exactly like the gundams, but close enough.   _ This isn’t just terrorism.  He’s looking to start a war. _ __

If that wasn’t admissible proof, Trowa was sure they’d be screwed.           

For a while, Trowa sat and listened, writing through his notebook and sipping casually at his water.  Occasionally, when he dared, he glanced over at the other table.  A variety of paperwork exchanged hands.  It wasn’t until Trowa saw Kader sign several after a thorough reading that he was sure they were contracts for goods or services.  Trowa knew the angle wasn’t the best but he was sure the video was able to catch something.  Hopefully, it was enough to satisfy Une’s needs.  Trowa casually flicked his notebook closed and finished his water.           

Catcalls suddenly started up.  Trowa looked around the room; he was still sitting, and drinking water.  It couldn’t be that attractive.  Then he saw her, striding into the lounge wearing much less than him and flashing a much more welcoming, flirtatious smile.  She had to be the girl Robert mentioned, the one taking the rest of Lena’s shift.  Almost on cue, she caught Trowa’s eye.  Her smile shifted from flirtatious to genuinely friendly and she waved at him.  Trowa waved back before gathering his things.  He returned the empty glass to Anthony before heading over to her.           

“You’re Lena’s friend,” she asked, brushing back some waist-length blonde hair that had gotten over his shoulder.  Trowa nodded. __

**_Tracy.  Nice to meet you._ ** __

“Likewise,” she said, shaking Trowa’s hand.  “Alexis, but you can call me Alex.  Everyone does.  Thanks for this, I know it means a lot to Lena.”           

Trowa shook his head and smiled.   ** _My please.  Always happy to help her out._**            

Alex smirked.  “Even if it means dancing on a Friday night?  No worries, though, you can head out.  Put your feet up, those look painful.”           

Trowa shifted his shoulders and looked mildly concerned.   ** _Should_** **_I let Robert know I’m going?_**            

“Uh, I wouldn’t,” she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck.  “I could hear him swearing from his office, he must have found something shifty in the books.  Best not to interrupt him when he’s like that.  Besides, Anthony and the boys saw you dance, right?”  Trowa nodded.  “Then no worries, they’ll vouch for you if anyone asks.  And I’ll tell Robert when he comes out.  Go on, head home.  Go grab that coat—and I love it by the way, tell Lena where you got it so I can get one—and get a cab before it gets too late.”           

**_Okay, okay I’m going.  Good night._ ** ****

“Good night, Tracy.  Thanks again!”  She gave Trowa a friendly squeeze on his shoulder before turning and skipping off to the bar.  How she moved that quickly or gracefully in those heels, he had no idea.  Trowa headed out of the lounge and back into the hall.           

The hall was still quiet but somehow it unnerved him more than it had before.  Trowa glanced once over his shoulder, to be sure it was clear, before heading into the dressing room.  He stayed near the door, examining the room for anything out of place (besides the coat and bag that had to be Alex’s).  Once he was sure, he stepped towards the vanity.           

“Nicely done,” Duo said over the two-way, a little too loudly.  Trowa winced, but thankfully no one was around to see it.  Or overhear.  “We should be able to nail him now.  Not bad for your first field job with the Preventers, huh?”           

Apart from dressing in a shirt and high heel, sporting a face full of make-up, pretending to be mute, and dancing before men twice his age?  All of whom were probably undressing him with their eyes?   _ Not bad at all, I think a mob hit would have been better. _ __

Trowa just shrugged, tossing the notebook on the vanity before going to get his coat.  “Still playing the mute,” Duo asked.  He inclined his head slightly.  “Probably not a bad idea, never know who’s listening.  Hurry up so we can roll out.”           

Nodding, Trowa headed back to the vanity.  He tucked the notebook and pen in a pocket and was just swinging the coat onto his shoulders when he heard it.  A slow, heavy clapping.  Trowa met the dark gaze in the mirror.  His coat slid to the floor.           

“A spectacular performance tonight.  Really,” Fahd Kader said, clapping once more.  It was an oddly bone-chilling sound.  Trowa watched his reflection, watched Kader let his hands fall and then lean one of his shoulders into the doorframe.  His body mass took up most of it.  Trowa breathed slowly through his nose.  “I’m impressed.  Your dance was flawless, minus that little flub at the end.  You’re a very convincing mute.  Your spying was actually subtle.  I almost missed it.”  Trowa dug his fingers into the edge of the vanity.  “And you do make a fantastic woman.”           

Trowa’s throat tightened.  He could hear Duo cursing under the slow throb of his pulse, and then the stream of hissing that had to be the others in the van.

Kader noticed the tension in his shoulders.  He grinned.  Trowa’s temple pounded as Kader stepped away from the door.  He kicked it closed before striding towards the vanity, towards him.  He didn’t make nearly enough noise for a man of his height and build.  Trowa forced himself to stay still, to relax his grip on the vanity and let his hands fall relaxed to his sides.  Even when Kader was just before him, nearly pressed against his back, Trowa didn’t do anything apart from lock his knees and take a momentary sharp breath.           

“ ‘How did he know,’ you’re thinking.  It’s plain on your face.” Kader’s breath was hot against Trowa’s neck.  “I’ll admit, for a short while, you even had me fooled.”  Trowa stood straight back, staring hard at Kader’s reflection, counting every line of brown in his eyes.  The corners of Kader’s eyes crinkled when he smiled.  “But I did figure it out.  I’m quite good at it, years of practice, you see.  People have always tried to convince me that they’re other than what they are.  I’ve learned how to see through it.  I’d be dead otherwise.”  Trowa said nothing.  He was waiting for it.  Waiting for the point.  There was a point, and when they got to it, he would take his advantage.  Until then, Trowa forced himself to stay still and silent.  It forced them to, although Trowa could hear the heavy, slightly panicked breathing of Duo and the lower steadier one of Heero.           

Heero knew how to wait.           

When Kader slid a hand around Trowa’s hip, and Trowa let out the smallest of uncomfortable noises, even Heero made a noise that told Trowa that his ability to wait was weakening.  But he said nothing.           

“They’re not trained like I am,” Kader said, gesturing back with his head and ignore the way Trowa tensed under his fingers.  “They were too focused on you.  The wrong parts of you, really.  They looked at your body and your curves.  The way the clothes fit so nicely and your hips moved so well.  They were too…enamored with your provocativeness. I can’t really blame them.”           

Trowa swallowed.  It was close, he could tell.  It was close and he could wait for it, wait and not stab his fingers into the eyes that followed Trowa’s curves down in the mirror.           

“Now, now, don’t be upset,” Kader soothed, smoothing out the skirt over Trowa’s hips with his fingers.  “It’s actually not that noticeable.  You have a woman’s body, in most of the right places.”  Kader’s breath wicked past Trowa’s ear as he ducked down.  Trowa stamped down the urge to turn away.  “Your hair is a convincing style, that makeup is flawless, and those prosthetics are probably the best that I’ve ever seen.”  Trowa couldn’t stop himself from flinching.  It was coming, it had to be.           

“It’s such a small thing, really.  You see—”  The hand on Trowa’s hip suddenly tightened to the point of bruising.  Kader’s other hand snaked up and around Trowa’s shoulder, reaching down to grip his forearm like a face.  Trowa flexed his hands, ignoring the pain.  He stared hard at Kader’s reflection, Kader’s smile white-toothed and feral.  Full of intentions Trowa did his best not to think about.           

“You see,” Kader purred, “women don’t have adam’s apples.”           

The point came and Trowa didn’t hesitate.  Forcing his leg back between Kader’s, Trowa rammed his elbow back with a sharp twist of his hips.  He put as much power into the blow as he could, aiming for the soft spot just under the rib cage.  He hit it dead on.           

Kader doubled forward.  Trowa slammed into him with his shoulder, knocking him backwards off balance.  Trowa shot out to the side, snatching up his coat before breaking into a run.           

“Get out of there, get to the street and the dark,” Duo snapped in his ear.  Trowa needed nothing else.  Coat in hand, Trowa tore to the door, praying absently that his balance was good enough for a sprint in heels.  Just as he reached for the doorknob, a hand slammed into the wood above Trowa’s head.  A second hand collided with Trowa’s back, shoving him face first into the door.  Something sharp stabbed Trowa in the chest, and he heard a small but distinctive crack.  The pin.           

“Very effective,” Kader growled.  “Resourceful little bitch aren’t you?  See if I don’t shatter your elbow next time.”  Trowa snarled and lashed out with his leg.  Just as he hoped, Kader jumped back.  Gripping the handle for leverage and balance, Trowa swept his leg in a sharp, high crescent.  The heel was solid and the edge was sharp, at least sharp enough to cut skin with the right speed and pressure.  If Trowa could knock him back with a blow to the face—           

Kader caught his foot, grabbing Trowa at the base of the heel.  His other hand grabbed Trowa’s entire ankle.  Trowa flinched in pain and then gasped as Kader pulled his entire leg forward.  Trowa’s knee buckled.  He swunt with a fist, only to have that caught just as easily, although Kader had to let go of his heel to do it.  Snarling, Kader forced Trowa back into the door and held him there, leg and arm pinned in an awkward, painful angle.           

“Unless you want me to break this,” he said, twisting Trowa’s leg until he gasped.  “I’d suggest not doing that again.”           

Trowa snarled and tried to break the hold.  Kader smiled at him.           

“You’re stubborn and I admire that.  But it’s starting to get annoying.”  Kader’s grip tightened.  Trowa winced.  He was going to bruise.  “I didn’t come back here to lecture you, you know.  Honestly, I don’t care what you want to do in your spare time.”           

Kader leaned close, pressing before Trowa’s legs.  Trowa stiffened and shuddered.  Kader’s voice dropped.  “What I care about are little boys who think they’re cleverer enough to spy on me.”  Kader released Trowa’s hand and gripped his mouth and jaw instead.  The pressure made his jaw creak.  “I’m actually glad you picked tonight, because now I get to send a nice little message to the Preventers.  I’m sure you’ll deliver it skillfully.  After all, you aren’t just a pretty face—”           

Kader interrupted himself with a roar of pain.  Trowa gagged at the taste of blood and flesh but he clamped down harder on Kader’s hand.  When Kader released his leg and started to pull, Trowa spat the hand out, managing to deflect the backhand Kader tried with a well-placed heel to Kader’s gut.  Kader folded over, cursing and nearly taking Trowa down with him.  Trowa managed to twist out of the way.  He scrambled to his feet, twisting his ankle some but getting the door opened.  The wood cracked Kader on the head as Trowa tore through the doorway.           

_ Hope it cracked his skull! _ __

Running was harder than he thought it would be.  The ankle twist was worse than Trowa had anticipated.  Every time Trowa put weight on it, pain lanced up his leg.  Still, Trowa ran.  He was halfway to the alley door when he heard the sounds of a larger pursuer struggling out the door.  Trowa shifted his weight as he ran, trying to keep from worsening the injury—or worse tripping in the heels—without sacrificing too much speed.  He just needed to make it outside.  The darkness would help and he could lay low in a trashcan or dumpster if he needed to.           

Trowa thought he could hear Kader behind him.  His breath hitched as something more primal surfaced under the adrenaline.  Trowa ran at the alleydoor with hands outstretched, catching the bar handle hard.  The door burst outward.  The alley way was silent, the cold bracing.  Trowa wasted no time but turned quickly on his toes and sprinted for the end of the alley.           

He had completely forgotten about the ice.           

Halfway down the alley, Trowa hit the patch of ice had noted because of the damn creak full force.  One of the heels slipped out from under him almost immediately, then the other.  The sky, just a slightly different back from the alley, whirled past him as he flipped backwards and hit the ice.  White burst in front of his eyes.  For a moment, Trowa couldn’t move. He could barely breath.  Something hot and sticky started to slide down the back of his head towards his neck.           

“Trowa?  Trowa?” Duo’s voice hurt his head and made his stomach roll.  “Trowa what happened?”           

_ Get up, get up, can’t stay here.  Get up. _ __

The ice bit into Trowa’s knees as he rolled over and tried to push himself up.  Vertigo messed with his senses and he swallowed down bile.  His hands scrambled on the black ice for purchase; the shoes did no better.  Trowa fell and the ice against his chest bit into him like a knife.   _ Come on! _ __

“Trowa, you still there?”

“I’m here, I’m coming.”

“To hell with that, we’re coming to get you.”           

“The fuck you mean,” someone snapped.  It wasn’t Heero, and Trowa couldn’t pin down the voice, so he assumed it was Leon.  “You know what Une will do to us if we break protocol on this?”           

“Fuck protocol!”

“Don’t move,” Trowa managed, swallowing hard as he pushed himself up carefully again.  “I’ll be there.”           

“God damn it, Trowa, this isn’t—”           

“Shut up and do what he says,” Heero said simply.           

“But he—”           

Whatever argument Trowa was about to make was lost on Trowa as a leather shoe shot out suddenly from the dark.  It connected with his chest.  Trowa grunted, dropping back to the ice.  He squirmed to get up or onto his back.  A heavy weight pressed down on the small of his back and a hand shoved Trowa’s head into the ice.           

“That,” Kader said.  Trowa gasped as he pushed him harder into the ground.  “hurt.”  Trowa gasped softly into the ice, flinching as the cold and the pressure made everything hurt.  His entire body shivered.  “And for that, I’m going to give you a much more poignant message than I planned.”  Kader leaned down and breathed over Trowa’s ear.  Over the microphone.  “The next time you little boys want to tail me, keep it under better wraps.  You’ll keep more men that way.”           

“God damn it, Leon, start the van!”           

“But Une said—”           

“You start it,” Heero snapped, “or I’ll start it!”           

Trowa briefly caught the strings of curses over the two-way before a sharp pain went through his earlobe.  Something clinked a little further down the alley, almost undetectable over his hard breathing, and he realized Kader had ripped the earring out of his ear.  Trowa couldn’t dwell on it.  Kader’s weight lifted suddenly but momentarily.  He grabbed Trowa by the back of the shirt and flipped him onto his back.  Trowa’s head hit the ice again, making Kader’s face pass in and out of focus above him.           

“I imagine we’ll have some time before they get here, judging by all the shouting.  And unfortunately, without that light on the corner, it’ll be much harder to find this alley.  There are so many in the area, after all.”           

There was something in Kader’s smile.  Something in the way he looked at Trowa, look through Trowa, looked through his clothes clinging to his skin, that made Trowa’s breath catch in his throat.  Kader tossed Trowa’s hands down by his head and held them there, the weight of his body grinding Trowa’s bones into the asphalt.  Trowa squirmed.  Kader shifted and pinned down Trowa’s hips with his own.           

There was something there: something familiar and terrible and, before this moment, only present now in Trowa’s nightmares.  His throat tightened and the shivers running through him changed as he drowned in that young, awful fear.  Trowa struggled, pulling on the grip and pushing at the weight with his hips and legs.  He needed something.  A hand, a leg.  Anything!           

Kader chuckled and adjusted his hold: taking both of Trowa’s wrists in one hand, loosening his tie with the other.  The silk slid down onto Trowa’s cheek.  Biting back a noise, Trowa twisted his leg to try and bring it up high enough to kick.  Kader slid down his body in response, pressing his weight onto Trowa’s thighs.           

“Fool me once.”           

Kader tugged Trowa upwards like he weight nothing.  He tied Trowa’s squirming and pulling hands with his tie, oblivious to how the vertigo and nausea made Trowa’s back bow and his head loll along his shoulders.  By the time Trowa could put something strength into his struggles, Kader was already dropping him.           

Hitting the ice the third time practically blinded him.           

“I think I prefer you like this,” Kader said, eye his work.  Trowa struggled, pulling at the tie and trying to get some leverage with his hips.  Kader stretched himself over him again, pressing Trowa’s hands down above his head.  “I feel for you, you know.  Really.”  Trowa snarled and Kader smiled.  “Today must have been so stressful.  Getting into this get-up, with the make-up and the heels.  And then coming here and having to perform in front of all those men.  Trying so very hard to get that information on me, only to learn that I knew you were coming.  And now, well now you have to lay in a cold and disgusting alley while I humiliate you.  Really, I feel for you.  But let’s call it a, well, a necessary learning experience, shall we?”           

Trowa lunged forward, aiming for Kader’s throat with his teeth.  Kader pulled back with a frown.           

“If you’re not going to behave, then I’m not going to be considerate.”  Behave?   _ Behave _ ?  Trowa would show him behaving.  He bucked and writhed and struggled, curses pouring from his lips as he fought every move Kader made against him with everything he had that wouldn’t involve screaming in terror.   _ I won’t give him that satisfaction.  I can get out of this, I will get out of this!  Son of a bitch, he won’t— _ __

Suddenly, the side of Trowa’s mouth hurt.  Actually, it was his mouth, and his cheek, and his nose.  Everything suddenly stopped as pain radiated from the side of Trowa’s face and blood, hot and sticky and metallic, dripped along his cheek and into his mouth.  When he turned his face back slightly from the side-facing position it had suddenly gone in, Trowa saw his blood coating the back of Kader’s hand.  The one that hovered over Trowa, ready to strike again.           

Trowa was eleven, then.  Ten, eleven, almost twelve and he was drowning in the loud thudding of his heart and pulse as he waited for that hand to fall and the zipper to open and the skin to rip.  Trowa’s vision shifted.  Mobile suits and scaffolding bled into the dark, filthy walls of the alley before slinking back again.           

_ He can’t.  He can’t, it can’t, it’s not, it can’t. It can’t, it can’t, it can’t! _ __

Trowa’s mouth felt open, but before any noise escaped, Kader grabbed his throat and squeezed.  The air cut out almost immediately.  Trowa could barely feel himself pushing against the arms with his bound hands.  Kader spoke to him.  Snarled and lectured at him, but the words swam in and out of his hearing as Trowa’s vision was lined in black.           

The pressure eased.  Trowa gulped in air thankfully for a second before choking again.  Kader’s forearm dug into his throat, and somehow the pressure was for than before.  It wasn’t enough, though, to Trowa from feeling the hand sliding under his shirt.  Trowa tried to squirm, almost vomiting at the closing of his throat.  A weak, strangled noise escaped him as Kader’s hand slid further down.  It wasn’t happening.  It couldn’t be happening.  There was no hand sliding up under the skirt clinging to his thighs, no fingers brushing along the trembling skin between his legs.  There wasn’t, there couldn’t—           

Trowa let out a gasping cough as the arm over his throat suddenly pulled away.  He choked on the cold air as Kader leaned back, staring at his fingers.  He rolled something between them and frowned.  After a moment, he looked down at Trowa: first suspicious, then confused, and finally intrigued.           

Trowa had gotten enough air into his lungs to gasp as Kader reached down and tore his shirt down the middle.  His stomach knotted as Kader pushed the frayed edges of the shirt to either side of Trowa’s chest.  Kader unhooked the bra with frightening skill, ignoring the way Trowa struggled.           

When he started to scratch at the groping hands, Kader pressed down on Trowa’s throat again.  Trowa gagged, unable to scream in protest when Kader fingers and then fondled the cold hard skin of his breasts.           

“Interesting,” Kader muttered, a strange almost appreciative smile crossing his face.  Trowa cried out almost silently as Kader leaned closer and his warm breath caressed Trowa’s torn ear.  “Very, very interesting.”  The hand on Trowa’s breast twisted hard.  His scream sounded like it came from under water.

The alley faded into darkness as Kader pressed hard on Trowa’s throat.  Choking, Trowa’s senses dulled one by one.  Dull, but not dull enough.  Even in the encroaching dark, Trowa could feel the fingers and hear Kader’s chuckle.  He managed a weak, twitching shudder as the cold fingers slid down and then pushed up.  His mouth opened silently.           

Trowa felt one last puff of hot breath on his face before losing consciousness.  Kader’s voice was low, fading in and out with the push and pull of his fingers.           

“Beautiful.”

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Une and Trowa handle the aftermath.

Une hadn’t had a headache quite this bad since the war.           

It was a low, constant throb just behind her eyes, one of those headaches that pounded down her neck with the steady beat of her pulse and then settled stubbornly in her shoulders.  It made her sore and restless, and irritated.  She had gotten a few weaker ones like this recently, which was a sign of continued stress.  Which didn’t surprise her, of course; the day-to-day operations of Preventers was stressful on a good day.  During a high profile operation, it was hell.           

This headache, though, was the pinnacle of stress-headaches.           

Normally, Une could cut off the stress headaches.  She’d pause in the middle of whatever paperwork she was review, drafting, or signing and dig out the aspirin from her desk drawer.  She’d pop one, maybe two, and then wash it down with a little bit of water in her coffee mug.  If it persisted, Une would get herself a fresh cup of coffee because caffeine was good for these kinds of headaches.           

And if nothing else worked, Une would take a moment—closer to five—and look out the full-length windows that lined the back wall of her office.  She had an impressive view of the city’s skyline from up here, and she would take advantage of it to rest her eyes and head by staring out into the city as far as she could see.  On particularly clear days, she could see the faint shadows of the mountains that separated Sanq and its neighbor.  The simultaneous distance and collapsing of distance always relaxed her.   

At least, until today.

She wasn’t really surprised; nothing ever worked on headaches like this.  Nothing but sleep, and she couldn’t sleep.  Certainly not now.  So the two aspirin she had taken floated uselessly in her system and the coffee, while quenching her thirst, made her jittery.  Une scowled out the window, nails digging into her arms under her blouse.           

Une had screwed up.  She wasn’t sure how, or why, but she had screwed up and one of her operatives had paid for it.  Trowa Barton had paid for it.

Somehow Kader had known.  She didn’t know how he had—“Under better wraps” he had said, according to the tapes.  If there was a rat in her building, she’d find it and drown in—but Kader had learned they were coming for him and set up a counter operation himself.  He had staged an exchange for them to overhear and document and waited for her to send an operative in to him.  Kader had used one of her operatives to send a message to her and the rest of Preventers.           

And it had been brutally effective.           

Sneering at the cityscape, Une turned her back on the window and stomped back to her desk.  She yanked her chair out from under her desk and somehow, in the process of throwing herself down into it, managed to know off not only Heero’s report but all the other reports she had been reviewing before he called.  Sighing she pinched the bridge of her nose.           

“Focus,” she muttered.  Shaking her head, Une scooped up the fluttered mess of papers and took her time reorganizing them.  Eventually she pushed the previous reports away from her and set Heero’s back in front of her.  She couldn’t say why she was reading it again.  Une had already ready it half a dozen times, and each reading only made the headache, the anger, and the guilt worse.  But she deserved that.           

Heero’s delivery never changed much between his written and his verbal reports.  His report was crisp, clean but surprisingly detailed for such a short report.  There was something almost clinical about it, though.  Impersonal, professional bordering on cold.  She shook her head.  Heero may have learned a lot about a lot of things, and changed in many valuable ways, since the end of the war, but when he was on the job, he was always the same.  Single minded.  Almost mechanically efficient.  Even when it involved injuries.           

Even when it involved a friend.           

Brief as it was, Heero had documented everything perfectly.  The operation had started off without issue.  Trowa had performed his role flawlessly; the environment hadn’t suspected him at all.  He had secured himself a good but safe location and gathered valuable (now worthless) information in a short time frame.  He had managed to leave the main lounge without issue or suspicion.  And then everything just…fell apart.           

_It had fallen apart long before we got inside.  He knew we were coming.  Someone told him, and when I find him._ Jail would be too good for the rat.           

The report was just a preliminary, however.  It had enough detail to give her all the finer points of the failure, and the aftermath, but there would be more detail to come.  Sighing, Une set the report aside.           

Underneath them was a second set of papers that Heero had brought, shortly after returning to headquarters but before turning in his preliminary.  Une flipped through them, skimming the conversations Trowa had overheard, looking for the stills from the video he had managed to capture.  She had already looked through it, of course, and everything was green until the last few pages.  When Kader snuck backstage and corner Trowa in that dressing room.  Une frowned as her eye caught a particularly nasty part of the transcription.           

“Damn him,” she snarled.  Une flung the transcript and scowled when it slid off the edge of her desk.  Sighing, she gathered them up again and straightened them.  They might not be much value from the operation anymore, but she still needed them.           

Une left them on her desk, on top of her laptop, and headed towards her office door.  She could hear it, even now.  The conversations of her operatives, their occasional jokes and occasional threats filtered through in that kind of dull hum that she had always found comforting.  It was the noise of a busy but productive place and even this late, it hummed with activity.  So far, there were no discomfort.  No hints of rumors or that silent tension that came with men and women trying to pretend that something was or wasn’t a secret.  So far, the failure hadn’t gotten out on to the floor.  It wouldn’t stay like that, though.  Rumors always spread, and Preventers always noticed when someone—even a new field agent—didn’t show up for a few days.  She just hoped she could keep it from getting too out of hand.           

Une opened her door a little harsher than necessary, startling her secretary almost out of his seat.  It wasn’t particularly difficult to do that though; he was a young man, fresh out of a military academy outside of Sanq, and a good ten years younger than most of the operatives.  He had seen little action during the short time he was in the field, and certainly nothing compared to most of the men and women here.  He didn’t seem particularly bothered by that though.  He had applied for the desk job after all   

“Sorry Eric,” Une said as he straightened himself.  He scrambled to his feet and sketched a hasty salute.  Une raised an eyebrow until he looked at his own hand.           

“Oh, oops.  Forget, ma’am, won’t happen again ma’am.”           

“It’s alright.  Private law enforcement is an adjustment.”           

Eric smiled some.  “Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?”           

“I have to step out for a couple minutes, there are some people I need to see.  Take messages and apologize for me if it happens to come from anyone particularly important or arrogant.  Other than that, best judgment.”           

“Absolutely ma’am.”  Une was glad that he had stopped his over-enthusiastic head nodding.  She had been worried he would snap his neck or something.           

“Thank you, I shouldn’t be too long,” she said before walking away. Oddly enough, Une felt a little bit better walking away from her office and leaving it in Eric’s hands.  He was an excellent secretary and an even better manager.  He had already shown a keen eye for order and structure and the level head needed to lead others when she left him in charge of the floor.           

Une paused.  “Oh.  One more thing.”           

Eric almost popped out of his chair but somehow managed to restrain himself.  “Yes ma’am?”           

“Get Yuy, Maxwell, Chang, and Zechs into my office by the time I get back,” she said, voice dropping some as she gave the order.  “You’ll only need to call one of them but let them all know I want to see them in twenty minutes.”           

Une wasn’t surprised that Eric swallowed a little.  He recognized that low tone, just this side of growl, if not from his own academy days then just from his time here.  She knew she had used it once or twice on him before when he first started and was still adjusting.           

If it bothered him, though, Eric gave no other sign than that minute swallow.  “Yes ma’am.  They’ll be in your office.”           

“Thank you Eric.”  As she walked away, Une made a mental note to put in a raise for him when his next review came around.           

She moved through the aisle between the desks and cubicles quietly as she headed towards the elevator.  Une turned at one point, and would not admit to herself that she was taking a round-about route to avoid Trowa’s chair.  Even though it was on the direct line to the elevator.  She wouldn’t admit that she wasn’t ready to see his desk yet, with his neatly piled reports, cross-referenced materials, and small line of pens.  Wasn’t ready for that small pang of guilt and twist in her stomach if Trowa did not show up for work tomorrow or the next day, did not sit there, chin on his fist, in quiet diligence and quiet displeasure.           

Preventers got hurt all the time.  Preventers were lost sometimes.  It was part of the job.  She mourned, they mourned, and they moved on.  But she wasn’t ready to face that just yet.  Not with Trowa.           

Trowa wasn’t just a Preventer.  He was a pilot, and there weren’t many of them left to lose.           

Une waited for the elevator for just a few minutes before stepping in.  She pressed the level the wanted and leaned back against the wall.  She was lucky, really, that she had such a good poker face—or rather that she was such a terror when annoyed that no one dared ask her what was wrong.  The last thing she needed right now were operatives prying.  Asking.  Noticing. There were enough whispers about her and Trowa Barton already, they didn’t really need more.  Une frowned.  She knew she treated him a little differently than the others, but he was the last one to turn quasi-civilian.  Half-military, half-peaceful was an adjustment for most people coming out of the active field, but Trowa had been in battle most of his life.  First as a mercenary, then as a gundam pilot, he had been free from most rules except for the dollar in the former and the vague final goal of the latter.  Structure and regulation were new for him, newer than for any of the others, and she wanted to make sure he adjusted well.  Older veterans than him had struggled with the fact that actions now had real consequences and that he had to be more accountable, and most of them hadn’t had nearly as much freedom.           

Une also still didn’t know as much as she would like about Trowa.  Apart from his work with the mercenaries and his tenure as a gundam pilot, most of Trowa’s life remained a mystery to her.  And Trowa said very little about it himself; honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t know much about it himself.  Still, Une needed to be careful considering the blanks in his history.  There could be a trigger than she was unaware of that needed to be noticed.  So she watched him, and the best way to watch him was to integrate him slowly in to the organization.           

Which she had.  Which had been going well.  Until now.          

When the elevator stopped, Une stepped out into the brightly lit, tiled hall.  It was unbelievably expensive to house a medical floor in Preventer Headquarters, but it was well worth it.  Operatives could receive care—and in some cases emergency surgery—in house, by physicians Une vetted and trusted.  It cut out any middleman and most of the threats of violence or bribery against her agents.  Her heel clicks echoed off the walls as she walked down the hall to one of the doctor’s office.  Night typically needed one on staff, but the others were on call.   Because things happened.           

She paused just outside of the door and took a slow steadying breath.   _ You’ve checked in on agents before, this is no different.  Deal with your injured, your fallen.  It’s part of your job. _ __

Une gave the door a push without even knocking.           

The fast inward swing of the door startled the office’s only occupant.  He jumped back from his desk, phone falling from his hand and clattering to the floor.  Panting, he straightened and adjusted the round, metal glasses that had somehow gone askew on his face.           

“Jesus,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair before straightening his lab coat.  “I was just about to call you.”

“Were you, Vince,” Une asked.  Vince nodded and then, oddly enough, pulled slightly at the collar of his lab coat.  Une frowned.  She had known Vince since before the war, and he only tugged at things when there was something he didn’t want to tell her.  “Well?”           

“Um, well is there something you came up here to see me about?  We can handle that first.”           

“Don’t play with me, Vince.”           

“No really, what’s up?”           

“What do you think,” Une asked, arms crossing over her chest.  “Wounded operative.  They always come up here.  I haven’t seen him yet, and I need to have a better idea of his injuries and current state.”           

“A better idea?”           

“One of his teammates already submitted a report.”

“Oh,” Vincent said, tugging at his sleeve.  “Of course.”

“You’re doing it.”           

“Doing what?”           

“You’re tugging.”           

Vince dropped his hands and scowled. “I am not.”           

“Well you were.”           

“So what if I was?”           

“Vince, you only tug when there’s something that you don’t want to tell me because you’re worried I’ll flip out.”           

“That’s, you, I, I don’t.”

“Yes, Vince, you do.  Every time.”  Vince looked ready to argue for a moment, but then he sighed and ran a hand over the back of his head.           

“It’s nothing… Well it’s bad, per say.  It’s just, it’s just odd.”           

“Odd?  Odd how?”           

Vince just shook his head.  He turned towards a partially open door at the back of the office.  Frowning, Une followed him.           

They didn’t really need to have rooms with the offices; there were already a half dozen recovery rooms on the floor, and those could hold two operatives at a time.  More if they really needed to.  But on occasion, privacy was needed.  Preventers handled, and often retained, important information and the last thing they needed was someone overhearing something sensitive.           

And sometimes, the wounds just needed a little more discretion.           

Vince held the door open for her until Une was inside, then he let the door swing closed quietly and latch.  Honestly, it was not as bad as she expected.  There was no life-saving drip.  No heart monitor beeping the slow rhythmic line between life and death.  There was only Trowa, breath even in sleep, tucked into the hospital bed with probably one too many blankets.  Une wasn’t quite ready to take in the oddly tension-less expression on his face—or how, without the bruising and split lip, he might have just been asleep—so she looked around the room.  Pale walls, just like the rest of the floor.  She might need to quietly remind them that a splash of color wasn’t against regulations.

There was a short table on wheels off to the side of the bed, with a tray of needles on it.  One of them was slightly out of alignment with the others and Une thought she caught the glint of liquid coming from the sharp tip.  She bit back a shudder and turned away.           

“So the odd thing,” Une prompted.  Vince hesitated before heading over to the bed.           

“I had to cut most of the clothing off him, you see” he explained.  “They were soaked and starting to freeze to him.  They’re over there.”           

Une crossed to the chair Vince nodded towards.  She picked through the ruined outfit, frowning at the stiffness of the fabric as it thawed into a wet mess.  Trowa’s heels were on the seat under them.  Une turned one over in her hands.  Lena was going to be pissed, they were scuffed so badly.           

“I think he slipped somewhere in those.  On ice, considering the weather.  He’s got a bad sprain and probably concussion.  Won’t know until he wakes up but he clearly cracked his head somewhere, judging from the blood I mopped up.”           

“There’s evidence of a struggle in the audio,” Une admitted, setting the shoe down.  Over the back of the chair was a coat, but not the one she gave him.           

“He’s got a fever, on top of the cuts and bruises.  He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t develop something worse than a cold.           

“What part of this is supposed to be odd?  I sent him out in these clothes, I’ve already listened to the audio and read the transcript.”  Une picked up the ruined shirt again and fingered the torn edges of the fabric.  Someone had clearly ripped through it.  Ripped it open.  She doubted it was Vince.           

He sighed.  “I know.  None of that’s why I was going to call.  This is.”           

Shirt back in the pile, Une turned and walked back to the bed.  She tried not to look to hard at the bruises forming on Trowa’s face as she neared.  Une scowled as Vince reached down and untucked the blanket from around Trowa’s shoulder.  “Vince.”           

“Just taking it down a little.  You won’t need much else.”  Une scowled at him but Vince was already pulling the sheet down Trowa’s chest before she could say anything.  Trowa shivered some, his head turning slightly to the side, but he stayed asleep.           

Une, however, suddenly felt her throat tighten.           

Her mouth remained, thankfully, closed, although she had to lock her jaw in order to keep it that way.  Une stood there for a moment, pulse pounding in her temple, try to sort through everything she knew about Trowa Barton and find something, anything, that would match up with what she saw.  She couldn’t.  Finally, she let out a low, long sign, her body unlocking with that rush of breath.           

At some point, Vince had slid a stool near her.  Une sank down on it and rubbed her temples.           

“You okay,” he asked, “you look a little pale.”           

“I’m fine,” Une said, only slightly surprised by how steady her voice was.  Years of practice in the service.  “I’m fine.  Just, just—”           

“Surprised?”           

_That’s one way to put it._ “Yeah.”           

“Okay.  So you didn’t know about it either,” he said as he covered Trowa back up and tucked the blankets around his shoulders again.           

“Damn right about that.”  Une’s brain spun turned out a dozen questions, and then a dozen more, before finally settling on one that kept coming back.  “How did he hide it?  I mean, his physical—”           

But had she actually gotten his physical?

Of course she had to.  It was standard protocol.  Every operative, after completing the interview and backgrounds psych eval, and after finalizing the contract, got a physical.  They had to pass, within a degree, certain requirements although allowances and accommodations were always made.  Most of the physicals were conducted by Vince but more than a few were handled by someone on the medical staff.  Every physical came with a final narrative report on the overall health and physical capabilities of the operative.  And every one of those reports hit her desk.

There were no exceptions.           

_ But I know I would remember reading about this. _ __

“You’ve got me,” Vince said, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck.  “I’ve seen so many of them, I really don’t recall seeing him.  He must have seen Erika, or Sammu, but I know they would have mentioned this to me before submitting their finals to you.”           

Une had stopped listening a dozen words ago.  She watched Trowa’s face twist in momentary mild discomfort.  He had always been something of a mystery, but there were a few things that she knew for sure.  Trowa was a painfully private person.  He didn’t like probing, he didn’t like sharing, and he kept personal matters, but more importantly secrets, close.  Very close, apparently.  She supposed she should have expected as much from an espionage expert.           

But Une also knew that Trowa was a former pilot: an expert on combat and strategy, a long-range weapons specialist, and—how could she have forgotten—an accomplished hacker.  He might not have been quite at Maxwell or Yuy’s level yet, but Trowa could still get into most systems with relative easy.           

Une frowned.  What would she do, if she had his capabilities, and a secret?  A big secret.  Very big, potentially life-altering?  Maybe life threatening?  What would she do to protect it?   _ Anything I damn well could.  Including weaseling my way out of a physical or into the data system. _ __

She was sure that Trowa had been careful.  That he had planned for every eventuality so that he wouldn’t get caught.  But she doubted he thought he would ever get assaulted on the job.           

Une frowned, lifting her eyes to the distant chair.  She stared at the unfamiliar, but slowly growing familiar, jacket.  Pieces started to fit into place.           

“Does anyone else know,” she asked finally.           

“No, just me on duty tonight.  No one else was in the hall when the guy brought him in.  I’m not sure he knows either, the coat was wrapped pretty tight—”           

“What guy?”

“Shit, Une, you know I’m bad with names.  Tall, brown hair, braided down the back—”           

“Maxwell.”  Maxwell could have gotten Trowa in, or at least helped him.  The Preventer systems weren’t weak by any means; she had learned where OZ had not.  Trowa wasn’t that good, not by himself anyway.  She was sure of that.           

And they were all still painfully, stupidly close.  Enough to easily commit a felon for one of them.           

Nodding, Une stood and headed for the door.  Vince hurried after her.           

“Wait, where are you going?”           

“I need to meet with the operatives who were with him.  Now.”  Une paused when she reached the door, looking at him over her shoulder.  “No one else comes in here.  No one.  This is not getting out, do I make myself clear?”           

“Done.  Nothing out.”

“Call me when he’s coherent enough to hold a conversation.”           

“That might take a while,” Vince admitted.  “He regained consciousness while I was getting the clothes off.  He was not okay.  I had to give him a sedative to calm him down before he hurt himself.”           

Une was more worried about Vince.  “Did he hurt you?”           

“Not a scratch.  Don’t think he was able to fight that hard, what with the cold and his injuries.  Plus that sedative acts fast.  I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did, though, considering what he’s been through.”           

Une nodded slowly.  “Keep an eye on him and let me know if anything changes.”  Vince nodded.  Once he had turned to head back to the bed, Une left the room, shutting the door behind her.           

She hurried down the hall of the medical floor to the elevator, where she hit the call button with her fist.  She tapped her foot impatiently as it took its dear sweet time reaching her and then tapped it more when it took even longer to get to her office floor.  By the time she was making a bee-line through the cubicles to her office, her anger was boiling over.           

When she got her hands on those idiots.           

Eric caught her mood before she even reached his desk.  “They’re all waiting in your office,” he said as he rose.           

“Good,” she snapped.  Later she would be sure to tell him that she wasn’t angry at him.  “Continue taking messages for me, I am not to be disturb.”           

“Yes ma’am,” he said.  Une thanked him briefly before heading to the door.   _Oh I just hope one of them dared to sit down, I’d love a chance to—_ “Oh, ma’am!”           

Une paused, hand on the handle.  She took a slow, calming breath through her nose.  She like Eric.  Eric was a good man, and he only interrupted her for excellent reasons.  She turned.           

“Yes, Eric?”           

“I know you’re busy but maintenance brought this up while you were gone,” he said, setting a bundle on the desk.  Une would recognize the cut and color of the Preventer uniform anywhere.  “He said he found it in a changing area in one of the side exercise rooms.”  Yes, someone would have found it by now.  Une made a short mental note to look into the price of lockers.           

“Thank you Eric, I know whose these are.  I’ll hold onto them.”           

Trowa obviously hadn’t had much time between changing and leaving to properly fold his clothes, and certainly no time at all since coming back to headquarters.  She could barely imagine him leaving anything in a pile.  Then again, folding them neatly might have made it easier for someone to find the binder.  Buried in a pile, wrapped up in a shirt and tangled in a pantleg, it was easier to miss.           

The four men jumped, ranging for a slight raise of their shoulders to feet an inch off the floor, when she threw her door open and slammed it shut.  Une didn’t glance at any of them until she was behind her desk.  Dropping the clothes on it, she glared at them.  The four for them stood close together, as if they had been talk quietly just before she came in.  They look at least a little nervous and it irritated her.           

“How long,” she demanded, gripping the edge of the desk as she leaned forward. 

“Lady Une—” Zechs started.  Une cut him off.           

“I don’t give a damn if he was a pilot, he’s one of my operatives now.”           

“Une,” Heero tried.           

“How dare you keep this from me?  How dare you help him?  Do you have any idea how much trouble you all are in?”           

“But Une—”           

“Do you have any idea what I might have to do to the lot of you, my best agents, if this gets out?  You helped him hack a top security—”           

“Une!”           

“Don’t interrupt me, Chang, I have a shorter fuse than you,” she snarled.  Wufei leaned over the other side of the desk and snarled straight back.           

“We didn’t know either.”           

The words hung in the silent air.           

“What?”

*-----*-----*          

Hurt.  Everything hurt.  Things Trowa hadn’t even been aware of hurt, and the smallest noise or movement just made it worse.  It lanced pain from his skull down the entire length of his spine until every nerve in his body thrummed with pain.  Whatever he did, however he moved, paralyzed him before the pain started to ebb, and then paralyzed him again when he drew a ragged, relieved breath.           

_Wh, what happened?_            

Slowly, as Trowa clawed towards clearer consciousness, the pain subsided.  If he laid perfectly still, breathing slow and shallow, the pain was manageable.  He couldn’t see.  Not yet; his eyelids were too heavy to open but there were other ways to get a feel for his surroundings.  He recognized the cool smooth feeling of cloth under his back, and the slight weight of multiple clothes across under his chin and down his front.  There was something soft but somewhat firm under his head, a little stiffer than the rest at the point where his neck and skull met.  Pillow, specialty pillow, and blankets.  So a bed.           

But it wasn’t his bed.  He didn’t have a pillow like that.  So where?  Bedroom of some sort, of course.  A hotel room?  Almost as soon as he thought it, Trowa dismissed it.  There was a small that didn’t remind him of a hotel room.  It was too overwhelmingly clean, like too much bleach and other noxious cleaning solutions.  And underneath that, something distinctly clinical.  Almost sterile.           

Sterile.  Clean.  Sheets and special pillow in a bed.           

“Hospital” sprang to mind.  Cursing, Trowa shot up into a sitting position.  He almost immediately regretted it.  Pain-induced nausea rolled over him.  Trowa could feel the little color in his face draining.  He swayed and managed to catch himself slightly as he fell back onto the bed.  Still, it wasn’t enough to stop him from hissing in pain as pain lanced down his body from the back of his head.           

He covered his eyes with his hands to block out of the bright fluorescents.  His fingers trembled against his face.  It took Trowa a moment to realize that the trembling and the sharp shaking gasps were not just from pain and fear.  He was cold.  His entire body was shivering, and the blankets and sheets touching him felt unnaturally cold and sharp on his skin.  It took him a moment to figure out why.           

Trowa wasn’t wearing any clothes.           

Trowa yelped.  The noise was loud enough to attract someone’s attention because Trowa heard the distinct and not-so-distant sound of breaking ceramic.  He yanked the blankets up before thinking about it; when he did, Trowa tried not to think about how weak it made him look.  The cloth was bunched beneath his chin when the door across from the bed opened.  He didn’t recognize the man who poked his head in, and for a moment it looked as though the man barely recognized him.  He stared at Trowa with open, wide-eyed surprise.           

“You’re awake, Agent Barton.  Well, well good.  I was starting to get a little worried.”  A body joined the face as he stepped into the room, wiping his hands on a towel.  The white was stained coffee brown and dripped a little onto the floor and the man’s white coat.  He didn’t notice or care, though, since he bundled it up and stuffed it in a pocket.  The man, that Trowa finally decided had to be a doctor, took a few steps towards the bed.  They were slow and careful, and when Trowa’s grip on the sheet tightened, they stopped.           

“Where are my clothes?”  Trowa was surprised, and embarrassed, by how unsteady and high his voice was when he asked.  It sounded sick and scared.  Vulnerable.  Vulnerable was not how he wanted to sound while naked in a strange place.           

“It’s alright,” the man said, probably trying to sound calming.  The assurance just made Trowa’s pulse spike.  “I’m not sure what you remember but you’ve been through a lot, so you need to lay back and relax, alright?”           

“Where are my clothes,” Trowa asked again.  His voice was stronger that time.           

The man ignored the question again in favor of adjusting his glasses and stepping forward.  “I’m Vincent, by the way.  You can just call me Vince, I run the—”           

“Vince,” Trowa snapped, doing his best not to shrink back as he neared.  “Where are my clothes?”           

Vince sighed, tugging at his coat sleeve.  “About that.  I needed to cut them off you while you were unconscious.  They’re over there, but not salvageable, I’m afraid.”           

Trowa couldn’t care less about fabric damage.   _ He did what to me? _ __

“You, you—”           

“I’m sorry, but it was necessary.  It was the only way to—”           

“To what,” Trowa demanded, ignoring the high whining in his voice.  “What did you do to me?  What the fuck did you—”           

He wasn’t sure what triggered it.  Perhaps it was the red of the torn shirt, which was peeking just around Vince’s white-clad side, or the rough scuffs on the heel of the laced sandal that was fallen over on the seat of the chair.  Whatever it was, as Trowa stared at the remnants on the chair, he realized he couldn’t breathe.  Couldn’t breathe but could feel.  Feel the cold rush of air and ice on his skin and the splitting pain of his head hitting the ground.  Feel the hot, heavy weight on his throat and hard, determined fingers.  Feel the wet puffs of air as someone spoke in his ear.  Trowa’s mouth worked silently.  It couldn’t—           

Of course it could, and it had.  He took a hard, shuddering gulp of ear.  The pounding in his head lessened, even as he heard Kader’s low voice breathe out that word that had followed him onto unconsciousness.  He heard yelling too.  Faded but familiar, warm and safe.  Yelling at him.  Yelling for him.  Swearing and shouting orders and encouragement.  The voices faded to the distant impression that a heart had beat against his back.           

_ No.  No, no, no.  They didn’t, they couldn’t have! _ __

Trowa wasn’t aware of how badly he was shaking until Vince touched his shoulder.  Trowa let out a startled, strangled noise, lashing out.  He didn’t break his nose because of bad aim.  Vince ducked around the swing and somehow managed to ease Trowa back into bed.  His hands gripped Trowa’s shoulder firmly but awkwardly.           

The bastard knew too.           

“I’m not going to do anything, I promise,” Vince said carefully.  Trowa snarled and tried to break his hold.  “You need to stop before you hurt yourself.”           

“Get off me, I want to get up.”           

“I can’t do that.  You’re in no condition to go and Une’ll have both our heads.”           

Trowa was sure she would, but he still struggled.  Or at least he did for as long as he could.  Eventually, his lungs burned for air and black started to circle his vision.  Panting shrilly and shivering, Trowa let Vince ease him back into bed.  The man’s hand lingered for just a moment on his shoulders, as if he wasn’t sure if Trowa had the strength to make another attempt.  Trowa didn’t have the strength, but he wasn’t going to let Vince know that.

Trowa breathed, shallow and painfully, while Vince looked him over.  As he worked through checking Trowa for a concussion with a pen light, pressing against the bruises on his face and neck, and feeling—carefully, and through the sheet—for any broken

Eventually, Vince stuck a thermometer under his tongue and left the room to go and do he didn’t know what.  But alone, Trowa was free to roll onto his side and covered his head with the pillow.           

_Well.  This is mildly better._            

Trowa had never actually been in a hospital.  He had always tried to avoid it.  So even though he was annoyed, and even though he was tired, he looked around the room as well as he could on his side, teeth clenching the thermometer.  The room was stark and cold, with white walls that looked painfully whiter under the lights and the distinctly inhuman smell of sterile equipment.  The metal of the furniture and the bed were the only real spots of color, what with the bright silver of rolling table legs and a milder white for the sheets and pillows.  There was the chair, though.  The rich cream of its fake wood frame and the black and red of the shredded clothes were violent in their color, nearly as painful to his eyes as the lights.           

_ I’ve got to get out of here. _ __

It was an idle, impossible thought, not least of all because Vince was in the other room.  Even if Trowa did have the strength to get out of bed and across the room, he doubted he had the strength to incapacity Vince long enough.  And he would have to do it naked.           

No, he would not be getting out any time soon.  Instead, Trowa pushed the pillow firmer over the side of his face, drowning out Vince’s quiet voice.  He was probably on the phone.           

Trowa returned his attention to the chair, eyes lingering on the jacket.  It was draped over the back and it was dark enough that Trowa thought it was black but it could have been a very deep gray or blue.  It looked like it was mostly wool, which would keep the wet off in the bad weather.  The hem of it pooled on the floor, so Trowa decided it was about ankle length.  He frowned as the details lingered.  Trowa knew the coat from somewhere.  He recognized it.  It wasn’t his, but someone’s he knew.           

_Heero._  It was Heero’s jacket.  He remembers, vaguely, how it almost got caught in the van door.  Heero must have come up with him, but why would he leave his jacket on the chair?            

Unless he had given it to Trowa.  Trowa had a faint member of cursing.  Duo’s cursing, and the ghost pain of his neck hurting as someone violently shook him into slight consciousness.  Heero must have taken Trowa from Duo.  Wrapped him in his own coat to cover him.  Warm him.  Perhaps Heero had carried him.           

He would have felt Trowa then.           

Trowa’s body tightened, knees curling toward his chest.  He dug his fingers into the pillow and ground his teeth into the thermometer.  Heero knew.  He had to know now.  He knew and he probably told.  Which meant they knew.  They  _ knew _ .  Trowa choked down a noise.  It wasn’t supposed to be this way; they were never supposed to know.

“Agent Barton?  You alright?  Ah, it’s probably too bright in here for your concussion,” Vince said.  The lights dimmed.  Trowa’s hand relaxed its grip on the pillow.  “Sorry about that.  Roll over so I can get the thermometer.”  Biting back a sigh, Trowa moved slowly, careful to keep the sheet and blanket with him.           

“101.  Well, not as bad as it could be, and not the other way.”  Trowa couldn’t remember the last time he even had a mild fever.  Vince pulled over a stool and sat down before writing on a clipboard he brought.  He smiled a little at the way Trowa winced and closed his eyes.  “I’m sure that was painful.”   _You think?_ “I’ll get you something for the pain and to help you sleep in a little bit, but first I—”           

Outside of the room, there was a series of hard knocks on a door.  Vince jumped and dropped the clipboard.  It clattered against the floor and Trowa bit down a groan.           

“Well, at least it wasn’t my coffee cup this time,” Vince sighed as he gathered it up.  “I’ll be right back, and I’ll bring painkillers with me.”  Trowa opened an eye and watched Vince as he hurried to the door.  It was open, and the angle let him see into the next room enough to feel his chest tighten again.

Une.  As if the night couldn’t get any worse. 

“How is he,” he heard her ask.  She stepped into the angle enough that Trowa could better see her face; she didn’t look happy. 

“He’s conscious, which is why I called you,” Vince said.  “A fever and he definitely has a concussion.  I also checked his ribs.  Cracked I think but not broken.  I’ll confirm it with x-rays in the morning.  Either way, not bad, considering.”           

“Considering.”           

“He’s damn close to having a panic attack though,” Vince warned.           

They were at the door now.  Trowa wasn’t entirely sure if Une was directly watching him or not, or if she could tell he was watching her.  It didn’t matter.  After a moment, she turned to Vince and dropped her voice.  Too low to really hear.  Vince looked between them after a moment before nodding.  He held up his fingers before heading back into the other room.  Une stepped inside and shut the door before her.           

For a moment it was quiet, apart from Trowa’s slightly ragged breathing.  Une looked at him, a hand on her hip, and Trowa once again wished he had a little more to cover himself with than just sheets and blanket.  He struggled against the urge to shift further under the blankets.           

“You look cold,” she said.  Trowa hadn’t been expecting it—expecting shouting or cursing or sneering but not that simply statement of fact—so he blinked.  Une walked in her usual quick, sharp stride to the chair.  She pulled the jacket off the back of it and handed it to Trowa, waiting patiently as Trowa sat up slowly, holding the blankets up against him.  She even turned her back on him, giving him the illusion of privacy as he tugged it on.           

It was cool against his skin and sat large and heavy on his shoulders.  Heero’s shoulder width had long since passed his.  Trowa wrapped the coat around his chest and settled back on the pillows.

“Better,” Une asked over her shoulder.           

“Yes ma’am.” An uptick in respect was probably warranted. 

Une nodded and turned.  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she crossed her arms over her chest.  “They’ll be glad to know that you’re awake.  They’ve all been worried about you.”

She could only mean the others.  Duo and Heero and Wufei and Zechs.  Trowa swallowed.  “Are they,” he asked.  His voice shook but it hadn’t risen.  Yet.

“Oh yes.  They wanted to come up here but I’ve denied them access for now.  You don’t need that much excitement, I don’t think.  They should be down at their desks, working hopefully.”

Up?  Down?  Of headquarters.  The directions clicked.   _ Of course, the medical floor.   _ Heero would never had risked Trowa with a hospital visit, not under normal circumstances and certainly not in the middle of a mission.  There was too much that could be lost or overheard.  Besides, Heero hated hospitals.  He would never walk willingly into one.   _ Let alone take me.   _ The realization wasn’t as comforting as it should have been because it let Trowa’s mind spin.  How many people had seen them carrying in Trowa’s limp body?  How many people had seen him?   _ How many know? _

“Oh,” was all he managed to say.  His voice rose a little.

Une’s tone turned a little softer.  “You left your uniform in that changing room.”   _ Shit.   _ Trowa had forgotten.  The binder had been so badly hidden.  “I have it in my office, in a drawer.  I’ll return it to you once Vince clears you.”

“Th, thank you.”  Une nodded.  The silence returned.  Trowa could almost see the hesitance in her face.  She knew.  He knew that she knew.  Which meant that know she knew that he had lied.  To everyone.

“You found the binder,” he said flatly.  “I didn’t hide it well enough.”

“Better than you think.  I had to pull it out to really know what it was.”

For some reason the statement made him flinch.  “I expected to have time to go and get it.”

“I’m sure you did, Trowa.”  Une paused and then sighed.  The look on her face was at once concerned and furious.  Trowa let his eyes drift down.  “How long have you been wearing that?”

“Une,” he started.  He needed to keep what little control he had, even as it slipped away.  “I don’t think—”

“You lied to me, Trowa Barton, and by the looks on their faces, I’m only the most recent on a long list.”  Trowa snapped his mouth shut.  “You lied to me, to your friends, and on an application for a law enforcement agency.  Private or not, I’m well within my rights to have you arrested and charged with a felony.  And even though I understand why, if this gets out I could be forced to press charges against you.”

Trowa swallowed.  He knew that, or at least he had considered it.  Put like that though.

“You need to tell me the truth, Trowa.  I can’t put up a good case for you without it, and I think I deserve that much from you.”

Deserve?  She deserved it?  Trowa felt the exhaustion and the fear give way to anger.  She deserved to know about the things he had tried to hide his entire life?  She didn’t deserve  _ anything _ from him.  Not a goddamned thing, and it took every last drop of will not to shout that at her.  These were his secrets. His and his alone.  His past, his pain, and his, his wrongness.  And no one got to know about it except for him.  Nobody.

_ Except I lied. _  Trowa swallowed and let his head lower.   _ I lied to all of them.  I just didn’t want them to know.  I didn’t want to hurt them. _  Trowa had hurt them all the same.  And himself for good measure.

“Trowa,” Une started.

“15.  Thereabouts.  Right around when Meteor began.”

“That’s a long time,” Une said after a moment.  Trowa shrugged.  He had gone longer without one.  

“I’m surprised you have fewer medical problems, considering your activeness in the war.”

“Proper training and proper motivation.”  More the latter than the former.  Trowa’s body had started to “develop” before Meteor.  By fifteen, he couldn’t hide it just with loose clothing.  The bulges would have been conspicuous on a boy his age and build. 

Of course, he had started with bandage, but that hadn’t last too long; Trowa had met Catherine shortly after.

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

He wasn’t going to mention her.  “It is, was, only my business.”

Une sighed.  Running a hand through her hair, she sat down on the stool Vince had left.  “Damn it Trowa,” she muttered.  “How did you keep it secret so long?”

It actually hadn’t been that hard.  He kept his circle of friends or acquaintances small, and the people who knew about it even smaller.  If he could.  Some of them, like Catherine, had found out by accident and he was much more careful with that now.  Others had ripped the knowledge from him, and most of those were dead.  Either from his hand or just the nature of war. 

He couldn’t do that to them, though.  Not them.  And he couldn’t have prevented what had happened tonight.   _ And now everyone knows.  One night.  A couple of hours.  And it’s all ruined. _

Une frowned.  “Trowa,” she said looking at him, “how did you get it past medical exam?”

Trowa was still a little surprised by well that had gone over.  The opportunity presented itself shortly after he finished the application and was sitting in another exam room on the floor.  He had been waiting in quiet, still terror when the doctor had rushed in: a young woman, astoundingly flustered and a little scattered brain.  He had been expecting her to give him one of those hospital gowns to change into.  The ones that never hid anything.  Instead she insisted on rescheduling him.  A family emergency she said, something unavoidable.  Bright and early the next day, she told him.

He hadn’t even been able to agree before she tore from the room.  She had been in such a panic that she hadn’t noticed he had left the paperwork.  The one that listed his name, identification number, and a data system password.

Trowa shouldn’t have done it, but he stayed late one night—to get accustomed to everything, he said—and got into the database.  It didn’t take him long at all to find and alter the right record.

No one had suspected.  No one had even bothered to ask him or her if they got around to the exam.  But why would they; Trowa had logged the date and time as the ones she had set for him.  And Trowa had given them no reason to ask about it.  He had filled out the forms as accurately as possible.  Just omitting a few details.

“It was fairly easy,” Trowa said after a moment.  After he explained, and suggested ways that it couldn’t happen again, Une shook her head.

“I’m honestly less surprised than I thought I’d be,” she sighed.  Trowa shrugged, tightening his hands in the folds of the jacket.  They were pale from the cold still, and the veins poked through the tight skin.

What would happen now?  A quiver went through his hands and wrists at the thought.   _ Everyone I wanted to keep away from this knows.  What’s going to happen now? _

The stool scratched noisily on the floor as Une stood suddenly.  Trowa flinched but looked at her, frowning when she nodded to herself.  She pushed it further away with her foot.

“You’re going to be staying here, Trowa, under Vince’s care and don’t give me that look.  12 hours, at the very least but he has clearance to keep you for days.  You’ll stay for observation and examination, and I expect you to behave, am I clear?”

“Yes ma’am,” he muttered.

“Tomorrow, at the earliest, or 72 hours at the latest, once Vince gives the all clear, you will be realized.  Then I suggest you take an additional day or two for recovery.  Still clear?”

“Yes.”

“When you return to work, you will be on desk duty until otherwise notified.”

Return to work?  Trowa blinked at her.  So he wasn’t fired or arrested? 

Une tilted her head slightly.  “Do you understand, Trowa?”

“I, yes ma’am,” he said slowly.

“Good.  At a later date, we’ll discuss this further.  Privately.  Hopefully I can stop this from being seen by the board, and if I can’t, I can at least make a good case for you.  What you lied about is, is not detrimental to Preventers.  You lied about personal health matters that do not deem you unfit.  And you were otherwise honest about all the personal information that we flag otherwise.  I am however confining you to your desk until I can get this straightened out.  Just to be safe.”

“I, I understand,” he said.  Then, in what sounded too much like an after thought, he murmured, “Thank you ma’am.”

Une smiled a little and nodded.  “Get some rest, Trowa.  They’re going to come up and see you in a while, and I doubt you want to be exhausted then.”  She left the room in her usual stride, shutting the door behind her.  Trowa heard her murmuring to Vince for a moment and then her voice drifted away with the distant sound of another door closing.  Vince didn’t come into see him yet.

Trowa sank down in the bed, pain in his head and chest be damned.  They would come.  Come to see him.  Eventually.  Probably soon.  Trowa swallowed, rolling onto his side.  He knew the questions they would ask.  What they would demand of him.  Answers and explanations.  Reasons.  Excuses.  Pulling his knees to his chest, Trowa curled into the warm coat.  His body hurt from it, but he didn’t stretch out.  Instead, he ducked his head down towards his knees.

His face was closer to the coat’s weave.  A smell wafted up from the wool.  It was warm and pleasant and familiarly human.  Trowa breathed it in and felt a little relief.  With a second breath, Trowa thought he might be able to sleep.

Maybe Vince would give him something while he drifted off to sleep.  Maybe it would stop him from dreaming and he could forget, at least for a little while.  Maybe it would be quiet.

Or maybe he would overdose.  That would be fine too,


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trowa tries to get back to normal.

 

Trowa had never realized until recently that he really hated his ceiling.  The shadows moved weirdly, inching across the stucco with the slow creep of the sun.  It highlighted every crack and imperfection.  And it creaked constantly.  Whenever someone upstairs walked across it; even they just shifted their weight just a little too much, it creaked.  And he didn’t have a ceiling fan in it, so there was no real way to cut the noise of it when everything got to quiet.        

Not that he could have gotten up to turn it on the last few days.           

Trowa rolled onto his side, dragging the pillow with him.  He considered going back to sleep, with the pillow pressed over his head so he could ignore all the creaks and groans and noises.   Trowa certainly needed the sleep.  He hadn’t slept much, or well when he did, for the last two days.  No one at the office would mind.  Une probably be pleased.           

Trowa sighed, rolling back onto his back.  If he didn’t get up, he was going to be late, and although work wasn’t exactly the place he wanted to be, he didn’t think he could stand another day alone in this room.  Not without screaming.  He wouldn’t have minded it so much—Quatre’s popping in and out to check on him had been nice, Heero’s lingering was calm and mostly welcome, and Duo’s incessant offerings to get him things were appreciated—if there hadn’t been the worst sort of tension in the room whenever someone else was there.          

Each and every time.           

Ever since Trowa had gotten home, leaning most of his weight on Heero because of the ankle, ribs, and nausea, there had been something hanging over the house.  Some kind of dark cloud, dark mood, that persisted everywhere.  Or at least everywhere that Trowa was present.  They all did their best, of course, to keep it from changing anything.  To keep him from noticing that anything was wrong.  But it was there.  They all knew it, and it made it difficult for things to go back to normal.          

 _Not that it was normal to begin with._

It wasn’t.  Never had been Trowa sat up and was momentarily glad that he didn’t get dizzy this time.  He swung his legs for the side.  “Normal,” before all this, had been his paranoia telling him that they talked behind his back.  It was the niggling feeling that they were disgusted by him.  It wasn’t true, and he knew it wasn’t true, but that didn’t stop it then.  Now, well now awkward silences accompanied him.  They averted their eyes when they talked.  When he left, whispers inevitably followed him out of the conversation.           

Trowa never thought he would miss the paranoia, but it had been so much better than the real thing.           

He didn’t want to think about what they thought of him know.  He didn’t want to think about what was behind Wufei’s silence or Zech’s disgust, shadowed with careful indifference.  He didn’t want to think about what lurked behind Quatre’s pity and the soft, watery looks, or Heero’s increased distance and the occasional curious glance, or Duo’s well- and badly-timed glares.  He didn’t want to think about them or think about which was worst.  Which hurt the most.  Trowa had done enough of that in the last few days, alone in the house as he recovered from the fever and the concussion.          

So instead Trowa stood.  He did it carefully, testing the weight his knees and ankles could take today.  A dull, manageable pain went up his leg from his ankle.  Those stupid heels.  He was lucky he hadn’t broken his neck in those things.  Still he felt bad about the scuffs.  Trowa had looked them over before he left the med wing.  Lena was probably pissed.  Thankfully, she hadn’t called him about it, or Une hadn’t given her his number.           

Trowa walked to the dresser, each step a little stronger and steadier than the last.  Keeping his eyes away from the mirror, he pulled open the same drawer that he always did and pulled out the binder.  Une had had his uniform, and the binder, cleaned before returning it to him.  He was sure the binder cleaning had been done privately.  Trowa had had no time to do it, after all, and his uniform had been in a sorry, wrinkled state when she found it.  It was kind of her to take care of it before he was released.  He should thank her.           

That strange, constricting hollowness spread in his chest, just as it always did recently when he thought about it.  Trowa picked up a dress shirt as well.  He got his uniform out of the closet and carried them all back to the bed.  He ran a hand over the back of his neck before dressing.           

The uniform felt odd against his skin; the binder even odder.  His stomach rolled.  Trowa ignored it as he ran the fingers over the snaps and then his ribs.  There was still a good amount of bruising on his back and chest.  After x-rays, Vince had downgraded his cracked ribs to “severely bruised and stressed.”  He had warned Trowa to take it easy, and Trowa had already learned that if he pressed or pushed a little too hard, there was pain.  Trowa should go easy on himself today.           

He tightened it to its usual tension.  Trowa had to grip the edge of the bed until the pain dulled to bearable.          

The buttons on his shirt slipped through his fingers several times as Trowa tried to do them up.  Eventually, though, he managed them all and then sat down on the bed to catch his breath.  He was just reaching for his socks, breathing mostly normally, when he heard it.  Footsteps, just past his door.  Heading for the kitchen.  Quatre was up and dressed and soon to be bustling around the kitchen like nothing changed.           

Trowa wasn’t sure he wanted to interrupt that attempt at pretend, blissful ignorance.           

He stayed off the inevitable as long as possible, even fussing with his hair to give him a few extra minutes.  Trowa was glad to have his usual sweep of hair in front of his face again.  He had missed the safety and cover it provided and the soft, stabilizing brush of it against his cheek.  Unfortunately it didn’t hide the bruises.  The angry, purple-and-yellow splotches spread across his cheek and down his jaw, although the color was not quite as intense today.  Trowa ran a finger along the thick band of bruising on his throat.  If he buttoned the collar of his shirt, it would hide some of it.           

The split lip was healing nicely.  It stopped bleeding days ago and had finally scabbed over.  Trowa thumbed at it, just to be sure.  As he did, he felt it: an almost phantom touch on his mouth and his throat and then the vague sharpness of a hand going across his cheek and nose.           

Trowa stepped away from the mirror and turned towards the door.  He had delayed long enough.           

Even with Trowa trying to be quiet, Quatre still heard him walking toward the kitchen.  He turned and smiled.  It was a little smaller than usual but still warm and pleasant.  Trowa stopped, pinned for a moment by the gentle but hesitant expression.           

“Good morning, Trowa.” Trowa’s lips parted and then closed.  Quatre tilted his head. “You alright?  You look ill.”  Quatre set down the spoon he had been using to stir a pot and walked over to him.  He slipped so easily into Trowa’s personal space, sliding his head underneath Trowa’s hair to set the back of it on his forehead.  Trowa locked his knees.  “You feel a little warm.”           

“I’m fine,” Trowa managed.  Quatre worried at his lower lip but nodded, stepping back.  Trowa struggled not to frown at the cool that spread from his forehead.           

“Are you sure,” Quatre asked. “You really shouldn’t push yourself.  I’m sure Une—”           

Trowa shook his head.   _Not one more day.  I can’t handle one more day._  “I really should get back to work.  My desk is probably buried.”           

Quatre laughed a little. “Probably.  If you’re sure,” he said as he headed back into the kitchen.  Trowa lingered by the table, running his fingers on the back of a chair.  “Breakfast isn’t quite ready yet, sorry.”           

“Can I help,” he asked.  Quatre paused as he reached for the spoon, turning slightly to look at Trowa.  There was something pinched about his expression.  It was the wrong thing to ask.  Too much too soon.           

“Never mind,” Trowa said.  He walked towards his usual chair.   _Idiot.  Things are bad enough.  Don’t force yourself on them anymore than you have to._  Before he could pull out his chair, Quatre caught Trowa’s elbow.  Trowa’s mind abruptly stopped.  Quatre held the joint carefully, mindful of any injury, and spoke toward Trowa’s hand when he finally said something.           

“I could use help setting the table,” he said.  “Please?”           

Trowa’s throat tightened but he managed a quiet, “Sure” as he nodded.  Smiling, Quatre headed back towards the kitchen.  Trowa followed him, fighting the urge to rub his elbow and somehow keep the lingering warmth there as long as he could.  Quatre didn’t look at Trowa again as he tended to the pot on the stove, but Trowa didn’t mind.  He busied himself with getting mugs and glasses, setting them in their places, and pouring coffee into three of them and tea into his own.           

“Trowa,” Quatre called while Trowa was setting out forks and spoons.  “Give me a hand real quick?”  Trowa nodded, setting down the fork he had before going into the kitchen.  He had a small spoon held up and a small smile on his face.  “Try this?”           

Trowa looked at the porridge-filled spoon for a moment before taking it.  The porridge was lumpy but sweet, the right amounts of cinnamon and nutmeg mingling in his mouth.           

“How is it?  Too sweet?”           

Duo and Quatre liked it the wrong side of sweet.  Trowa shook his head.  “Tastes fine to me.”           

“Oh thank god. I know how much you and Heero hate the teeth-clicking sweet,” Quatre said.  “I really need to write down the recipe.  I can never quite remember the spice measurements.  Hand me a bowl, would you?”  Trowa pulled bowls out of the cabinet and handed one to Quatre.  He ladled porridge into it carefully before giving it back to Trowa.  Their fingers brushed slightly when Trowa took it, and Quatre continued to smile as Trowa took it to the table.           

Unfortunately, he only got about half way.           

“Damn, something smells good,” Duo said. “Are you making porridge, Quatre?”           

Duo and Trowa both managed to stop just a bare foot from each other.  Trowa’s grip on the bowl tightened as something black and angry briefly crossed Duo’s face.  Trowa was surprised by how much it hurt, seeing Duo’s usual excitement and laughter crumple into something so dark and knowing he was responsible.  He kept his own face, though, carefully neutral.           

Heero stepped out from behind Duo.  His expression was also carefully blank, which was better than Duo’s but still didn’t make Trowa feel particularly better.  It was too smooth, too controlled, as if Heero didn’t trust himself with his feelings.  He had been doing so well, too, with trying to show them regularly.  Heero stepped towards Trowa.  Trowa locked his knees, having the brief, discomforting worry that Heero might hit him.  Heero’s anger sometimes came with a blank expression.                    

Heero took the bowl from Trowa, tilting his head slightly. “You alright?  You looked like you might drop this.”           

“I’m fine,” Trowa said, although let his hands drop to the side.  Heero looked Trowa over once before nodding.  It was that single, disbelieving nod that Heero somehow managed.           

Quatre poked his head out of the kitchen.  “Good morning Heero, Duo.” Heero set the first bowl of porridge down on the table and then took the next from Quatre’s hand.  “Oh. Thank you.”           

Heero nodded.  Trowa stepped away from the table and out of the way.  Duo shook his head slightly and ducked around Heero, ready to take the next bowl.           

Back near his own chair, Trowa watched, a hollow feeling in his chest.  Duo handled the rest of the bowls, so Heero finished putting out spoons and napkins.  Trowa gripped the back of his chair and wondered briefly how rude it would be to go to work without breakfast.  The sharp smell of cinnamon suddenly made him nauseous.  But when Quatre came out and sat down, Trowa dutifully pulled out his chair.           

Duo took a deep breath as he sat down. “God I do love it when you make this,” he said, sighing pleasantly after the first spoonful.  Quatre blushed but smiled, and Heero smiled a little over his coffee.”           

“Glad you like it.  I wasn’t all that sure about the flavor myself, but Trowa helped me out with it.”           

Trowa wished Quatre hadn’t mentioned that.  Between Duo’s choking on his food and Heero’s silent, heavy stare, he didn’t think they would get through breakfast without incident.  He kept his own attention firmly on his bowl, although his throat was too tight for eating.           

The silence came, that same quiet tension that always seem to settle over the four of them now.  Trowa missed the old companionable quiet of their meals.  That more delicate and calm chink of china interrupted by quiet but warm conversation.  Trowa’s fingers tightened on his spoon.   _This is my fault.  All my fucking fault.  I couldn’t get through even one night.  I ruined everything._

Finally Quatre cleared his throat, and the tension lifted a little.  Heero glanced towards him while Duo took a sip of coffee.  Trowa hoped the conversation was going to be a long one.  It would be much more pleasant.           

“By the way, tell Une that I should have everything she needs by tomorrow,” Quatre said.           

Heero blinked, head tilting in that slight way to indicate mild surprise.  “That soon,” he asked.           

“Not really.  I could have had it weeks ago but I was being cautious.”           

“I prefer cautious,” Heero said simply but he smiled.  “Thanks.  We’ll tell her today, she’ll be pleased.”           

“She better be,” Duo said with a snort.  “She’s been in the worst mood.”  Trowa ground his teeth against his spoon.  She had been, and he didn’t need to wonder why.  “Some good news is just want she needs to get the stick out of her.”           

“Could you not,” Quatre sighed.           

“What?  Trust me, that’s tame compared to some of the shit I’ve heard said behind her back this week.”           

“Heard or said,” Quatre asked.           

“I’m behaving.”           

“Sure you are.  Well maybe she’ll feel better after hear this.”           

“God I hope so,” Duo sighed.           

Trowa did too but he wasn’t holding his breath for it.  Nothing short of Kader’s head on a platter on her desk seemed able to improve Une’s recently furious mood.  At least that’s what Duo, and in less colorful language Heero, said.  Trowa didn’t have much reason not to believe, and not to realize that it was his fault.  He had messed up the op.  Messed up everything.           

But no one seemed willing to admit it except him.           

That might have been the most frustrating part.  No one—not Heero nor Duo nor Quatre, Wufei, Zechs—no one would say it.  No one would say it, or admit to it, or admit that they knew it.  Knew everything.  Knew what he was.  Instead, everyone skated around him and left him to his own devices.  Admittedly, Trowa had been recovering, and admittedly he had always held them a bit (and sometimes more than a bit) at arms length but this was different.  Now they kept the distance.  They pushed him back.  They ignored it and by extension him.  It was like it didn’t exist, like it didn’t happen.           

Trowa wasn’t used to that.  No one had ever ignored it.  And they certainly never ignored him after learning about it.  It was in some ways worse than the experiences before.  Trowa could take screaming and cursing and violence.  He could understand that.  Right now, he couldn’t tell what they were thinking, and that was frightening.           

“Oh,” Quatre said after looking at the wall clock while sipping his coffee.  “I need to get going. We have a meeting in an hour and half and I need to finish prep.”           

Heero nodded.  “There’s a lot of black ice this morning.”           

“I’ll be careful,” he promised as he pushed in his chair.  Quatre hurried over to the door and had his coat half on when he paused.  “Would you—”           

“We’ve got it,” Duo said.  “Always do.”           

Quatre smiled, then swept up his keys and bag and hurried out the door.  The three of them flinched when the icy wind outside snapped the door shut behind him.  They sat there, Trowa holding his mug, Heero sipping the last of his coffee and Duo looking at his empty bowl, until the engine of Quatre’s car turned over.           

Then Heero sighed and stood.  “Let’s go.”           

Trowa and Duo both nodded and stood.  They reached across the tables for empty mugs and bowls.  Their hands touched briefly over Quatre.  Trowa spilled a little of his leftover porridge and Duo dumped coffee as they pulled back.  Heero blinked and then sighed.           

“Just take them to the kitchen.  I’ll get a towel.”           

Trowa took the bowls and mug he had.  Duo grabbed Quatre’s and carried them after him.  He dropped them in the sink with Trowa’s without a word and then turned his attention to the leftovers.  Trowa dared to look at Duo once, but Duo was already taking things to the fridge.           

A few minutes later, Heero brought the towel into the kitchen.  He wrung it out the dirty water Trowa was draining from the sink.           

“Finished,” he asked.  Duo nodded.  Trowa dried his hands once the sink was empty.  “Alright.  Let’s go then.”           

Outside, there was a hard, chilling wind and icy rain that went straight through their winter coats.  Trowa looked up at the sky with its heavy, grey clouds.  It looked like it would be a cold mess all day.  Rolling his shoulders forward, Trowa pulled the neck of his coat up and closed before following them to the car.  He frowned at his bike as he walked past it.  Riding it was out of the question; they’d never let him out of the drive way, and the cold and ice would hurt it.  At least under the tarp, his bike would be protected.           

“Shit, what a mess,” Duo said over the wind.  “Hope Quatre’s alright on the road.”           

“He’s a better driver than most,” Heero said.  He walked to the car and slid into the driver’s seat.  Duo hurried after him, slipping on the half-frozen gravel.  Sliding to a stop next to the passenger door, he looked at Trowa over the roof.           

“You coming or do you want to walk?”  Trowa hurried over himself.  His shoes got almost no traction.           

Trowa had never liked cars, riding or driving in them.  He had done it in the war because it was necessary, but Trowa found them confining.  Almost suffocating.  Like sitting in a badly designed missile or a moving cage.  He didn’t have much choice today though as he climbed into the backseat.  He would make the best of it.           

Hunkered down in the seat, Trowa shivered.  There was a crack somewhere and the heat hadn’t quite kicked in yet.  Trowa pressed his folded arms into his stomach and laid his head against the window. It was cold, but the vibration of it was oddly soothing.  After a few minutes of silent driving, though, Trowa was tempted to ask them to at least turn on the radio.  The quiet was making the terror worse.           

Then the car hit a pot hole and Trowa was a little too distracted by his ringing, aching head to think about terror or silence.           

Trowa spent the rest of the short ride rubbing his head and tensing every time the car lost traction.  Which was unfortunately often.  He was a difficult passenger to begin with, he knew, but in the bad weather it was much, much worse.  Trowa nearly bolted out of the car while it was rolling to a stop once they got to the garage, but he managed to at least wait until Heero had parked before scrambling out.           

Thankfully, neither Duo nor Heero commented on it.           

Upstairs, on his floor, Trowa felt the hairs on his neck rise.  Following Duo and Heero out of the elevator, he noted a definite decrease in movement from everyone immediately around them.  He slowed, casually, to watch the other preventer operatives and learn the cause of the sudden slowdown.  It didn’t take him long; they were watching him, not quite as discreetly as they probably thought.  There was something behind them, something that was different from the curiosity that had been there when Trowa had come in with his hair down.           

He wondered how much they knew.           

Trowa ignored the scrutiny as he went to his desk.  Draping his jacket over the back of his chair, Trowa sat and for a moment felt better.  The chair was a stiff but familiar support at his back.  The papers and folders in their impeccable piles were familiar.  It was almost as if the last week hadn’t happened.  Almost.  Trowa reached for his pen and started on the first report.  He needed a good pattern to follow.  He hoped it came soon.           

It didn’t, or maybe it did and Trowa just couldn’t focus on it.  He was having trouble falling into his usual almost-trance like state.  He just couldn’t disconnect from the noise around him.  Snatches of conversations—especially low ones—kept grabbing his attention.  And although he couldn’t exactly make out the words, he was sure he knew what everyone was talking about.  Trowa did his best to ignore them, to focus, but by the time Duo nudged him to remind him about lunch, Trowa’s jaw hurt from clenching and his notes were a mess of scratched out lines.          

He sighed and was glad to have a reason to get away from the desk and office.  Even if it meant going out in the storm.           

It took Trowa much longer than usual to fight his way through the storm and the unusually thicker throng of people in the café.  Lunch was almost half over by the time he made it back, stepping out of the elevator while shaking snow from his hair.  Oddly enough, they were still there on the mostly empty floor.  The four of them were gathered around Wufei’s desk, tight and tense as they talked.  Heero had the clearest line of sight, so he saw Trowa first.  He didn’t say anything, didn’t gesture toward any of them.  He simply stared.  And when the group finally headed toward the nearby stairwell, Heero lingered.  He stayed, frowning slightly as he watched Trowa, long enough that Duo had to turn and touch his elbow.  Then Heero followed him to the stairwell and disappeared into it without a word.           

Trowa stood by the elevator for a good minute before heading back to his desk.  He dropped his lunch in a trash can along the way.           

Trowa’s ability to focus only got worse in the afternoon, no thanks to hunger.  His body started to ache early into the afternoon.  More than once, Trowa had to put down his pen to hold his pounding head, and then winced when he brushed the bruises.  Around three, his chest started to ache.  Trowa didn’t keep pain killer in his desk, but there was no way he was going to go and see Vince.   _I’ll bring a bottle in tomorrow._            

The last part of the afternoon stretched.  He flipped back through his work several times; he had been making mistakes, unusual mistakes, for most of the day.  He had been making one particular one over and over again in the last hour.  He was on a third copy of his notes, using pencil—and Trowa hated pencils—when Une walked out on the floor.  He recognized the distinctive noise of her shoes.  Trowa swallowed and bent over his work.  Perhaps she was finally coming to speak with him “at length” like she had promised.           

He raised his eyes when she was a few feet away, and then lowered them when she walked passed without so much as a look at him.  A knot tightened in his stomach.           

Trowa didn’t pay much attention to anyone else’s coming and goings for the rest of the day, although it iwas a concentrated effort.  His head continued to pound until after five rolled around, when it positively split in pain with the light jab Duo gave it with a pencil.  Gritting his teeth, Trowa rubbed the spot before turning around.  The four of them formed a small knot around his desk.  Trowa dutifully ignored Wufei’s tactful attempt to avoid his eyes.  He hadn’t looked at himself since this morning, but if the sympathetic look on Zech’s face was any sort of judge, Trowa now looked positively awful.           

“Time to go,” Heero said, nodding toward the elevator.  Trowa blinked and then nodded.  That’s right; he as dependent on them tonight.  Unless he caught a bus or a cab.  And they let him catch a bus or a cab.  Trowa set down his pencil and pushed his latest folder aside.           

“Coming,” he said.  Trowa turned off his desk lamp, stood, and shrugged on his coat.  He zipped it up to his chin as he followed the four of them to the elevator.  They talked quietly about work as they walked and waited.  Trowa said nothing, and when the elevator arrived he slipped into the corner of it.  He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and leaned back against the walls as the elevator fell.  Suddenly it jerked, and it spent the rest of the ride down shuddering.           

Trowa was sure he waasn’t the only one happy to be out of it when it hit the garage.           

“Jesus,” Duo muttered, glaring back at it. “Think we should tell Une about that?  What if it plummets to the basement with someone in it?”           

“It won’t,” Zechs said mildly. “They’re designed to not do that.”           

“Oh so all those stories about elevators in office buildings plummeting to the basement are just horse shit?”           

“Pretty much.”             

Wufei frowned. “When was the last time you ever saw a story like that,” he asked.           

“Clearly since you stopped reading the news.”  Wufei rolled his eyes.           

“Fine, by all means, take it back upstairs to tell her.  If it plummets to the basement on the way, we’ll be sure to tell her for you.”           

“I’m not take that.”           

“Then take the stairs.”           

“God, you are so funny, ‘Fei.  An absolute riot.”  Zechs smiled, shaking his head as he draped an arm over Wufei’s shoulder.  It was just enough to keep Wufei from snapping out a certainly scathing and deserved retort.           

“Good night,” Zechs said.  “Watch out for black ice.”           

“You too,” Heero said.  They headed to their cars, Zechs and Wufei slipping between cards to cut across the rows.           

“Good night,” Trowa said before they had gotten two cars over.  He wasn’t sure if they heard them, although Wufei did seem to look over his shoulder.  Trowa couldn’t linger though to check.  Heero had already started the car.           

Trowa managed to doze a little as they inched home through the snow and ice.  He was tired enough for it, and it helped his headache a little.  Heero hit black ice only once on the drive home, at a red light.  He somehow managed not to spin or careen into the SUV stopped ahead of them.  It was an impressive bit of driving, and it had woken Trowa up with a sharp throw of his stomach into his throat.  When they got going again though, Trowa looked at least mostly calm and even managed to join Duo in cursing the storm.           

Gravel finally crunched underneath the car tires.  Trowa winces when the overhead light came on as the doors opened and the cold winter air came in.  Suppressing a yawn, Trowa scrambled out and trailed behind the two of them as they walked towards the house.  He felt more tired with every step, but the exhaustion wasn’t particularly surprising.  Between the cold, the pain, the paranoia, and the loathing, he was surprised he was standing up straight.           

Quatre lifted his head from the book he was reading in one of the arm chairs when they came inside.  He smiled tiredly, tucked a scrap of cloth in it, and set it on the coffee table.          

“You all look bedraggled and exhausted,” he said as Trowa shut the door behind him.           

“We’re about as good as you then,” Duo said.  He looked Quatre over as he brushed the snow off his coat and hung it up.  “You look beat.”           

“Long day.  You?”           

“The longest,” Duo sighed.           

“Well there’s dinner.  It’s staying warm in the oven.  I thought you all might like something nice and warm to come home to.”           

Duo walked behind the armchair and draped himself heavily over Quatre’s shoulders.  “You are the fucking best.”  Quatre laughed.           

“You’re welcome, get off.”           

“You didn’t want until we got home did you,” Heero asked as he took of his boots.  Quatre flushed.  Heero sighed.  “You didn’t have to do that.”          

“I know, but I wanted to.”           

Duo squeeze his shoulders before straightening up.  “Well, since you were so nice to make us dinner—”           

“Duo, I always make you dinner.           

“—and wait for us, Jesus Quatre, let me finish.  Table duties on me.  Set up, serve and everything.”           

“You don’t have to.”           

“I want to, I insist.  So move.  Go sit at the table, relax for once.”           

“I can relax just as well right here,” Quatre said.           

“Nope, table.  Now, up.  Move.”  Quatre laughed as Duo tugged him up and then started pushing him to the table.           

“Okay, okay!  I’m going.”  Heero smiled a little, shaking his head as he followed.  Trowa lingered, glancing between the table and the hall towards his bedroom.           

“Trowa, you coming,” Quatre asked.  Heero and Duo paused to look at him.  Ignoring the prickling at the base of his neck, Trowa shifted ever so slightly towards the hall with a shake of his head.           

“I’m not hungry,” he said, ignoring angry, starving knotting of his stomach.  “I’m not feeling all that great, so I think I might just go to bed.”           

He did his best to look unaffected by their stares.  Quatre chewed on his lip and took a couple of concerned steps towards him.  Duo retreated into the kitchen with a badly-concealed grumble.  Heero simply stared.          

“You do look tired, and kind of…off,” Quatre said after a moment.           

“Definitely tired, and sore now,” he admitted.  Quatre made a quiet, sympathetic noise.  It twisted slightly when he heard something crash in the kitchen.  Heero hurried to see what Duo dropped, or threw.          

“Do you need anything?”           

“Just some sleep, I think.”           

“Okay, Trowa.  Good night, sleep well.”           

 _Not likely._ “I’ll try.  Good night.”  Trying not to look like he was retreating, Trowa headed towards his room.  He paused at the hallway, glancing over his shoulder. Quatre noticed and, smiling, moved a second “good night.”  Trowa nodded back, managing a small smile, before he slipped around the corner and into his room.           

Inside, Trowa thunked his head back against the closed door and regretted it almost immediately.  He hurt enough from the headache and the bruises and the lack of food.  He didn’t need another head injury on top of it.  Trowa straightened and rubbed his temples.  It was then he noticed it.  An odd, almost overbearing silence.  Frowning, he turned and rest his head against the door.  Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Not the chink of plates or cutlery.  Not even quiet conversation.           

Were they listening?  Trowa yanked himself away from the door and rummaged a little louder than necessary for his sleep clothes.  It wasn’t until he was pulling shrugging out of his dress shirt that he heard silverware on plates.         

So they were listening.           

He tried not to think about it as he undressed and tucked the binder away in its usual drawer.  But then he heard it and couldn’t stop.  The conversation was soft at first but grew steadily louder, until it was mostly intelligible whisper beyond his door.  Trowa chewed his lip and then crept back to the door.  He stood at it, balanced around the part of the floor he knew creaked, and listened.           

They were just clear enough.           

“Don’t make that face, Quatre,” Heero said.  Trowa heard a sigh.           

“I’m not making a face.”  There was a beat of silence.  “What, I’m not.”           

“Yeah you are,” Duo said.  “What’s up?”           

Trowa was surprised by how bitter Quatre sounded.  “I could ask you the same thing, you know, with the face you’re sporting.”           

“Hey I know I’m making a face,” Duo said, and Trowa could almost see the shrug. “I’m pissed as all hell right now and I’m wearing it on my sleeve like a normal person.”           

Quatre snorted.           

“Come on,” Duo sighed, “what’s wrong?  I mean, I’m pretty sure I already know but I’d rather you talk to us.”           

“I just, just don’t know what to do,” Quatre said after a long pause and a sigh.  “I don’t know what to do to help him, or even ask him how to help him.”           

“Don’t bother,” Duo said. “I’m certainly not.  Not until he decides to ask me for it.”           

“And we wonder why he won’t talk to us for longer than five minutes,” Heero grumbled.           

“You know, I’m not actually surprised by the lack of fucks I give.”           

“That’s not fair, Duo,” Quatre said.           

“That’s not helping,” Heero clarified.  “That attitude isn’t exactly going to make him want to talk to us, and you know he’s caught on to it.”           

“You’re not exactly tripping over yourself to chat with him either, babe.”           

Trowa could hear the scowl in Heero’s voice.  “When he needs to talk to me, I’ll be there to listen.”           

“Because he’s always been so fucking keen on talking to us about himself.”           

Something sharp clattered on the table.  “Stop it,” Quatre snapped.  “Stop talking about him like he’s not even around.  And for fuck’s sake, lower your voices.  He’s sleeping.”           

Trowa dug his fingers into the doorframe as the dinning room table went quiet.  Finally Duo sighed, and it was much harder to hear that time.           

“I’m sorry, Quatre,” he said.  He must have stabbed his plate with something because it scratched loudly.  “I’m just, I’m mad, okay?  Aren’t you?  I mean, he’s been lying to us—”           

Trowa pulled away, not wanting to hear anymore.  He stumbled back to his bed, sitting heavily on the mattress and not in the least concerned about them hearing.  They would probably just assume he was shifting in his sleep.  Sure enough, the distant mumblings quieted.  Trowa fell back onto the bed.  Once the conversation started again, he rolled onto his side.           

Eventually, there came the familiar clatter of clean up.  Not long after, the light under his door went out, and there was the familiar creak as they headed upstairs.  Trowa thought he could hear soft “good nights” because the creaking split and spread across the ceiling: Quatre turning left to his room, Duo and Heero turning right to theirs.           

They had long since gone to bed before Trowa found himself able to sleep.          

*-----*-----*

Trowa wondered if they would go away if he just stayed like this long enough.           

He knew he was being unreasonable at best and horrifically childish at worst.  That didn’t stop him, though, from burying his face further under the pillow.  He could still hear Duo, knocking and calling his name with increasing frustration, through the fabric.  Trowa pushed it down over his ear.          

He had been like this for most of the week, he’d admit.  Well, not exactly.  He still coming out of his room.  Still going to work.  Still riding in the backseat for the commute since the weather hadn’t let up at all.  But ever since he overheard that night, Trowa kept his interactions with them clipped.  Polite, of course, but short and certainly with a good amount of distance.  He made excuses for leaving conversations and rooms and missing meals entirely.  His stomach wasn’t happy about that, but Trowa learned years ago how to ignore hunger when there were more important things to worry about.           

Pettiness wasn’t exactly important, but it worked just the same.           

Trowa knew he shouldn’t blame them but it still hurt.  How dare they talk about him like that, and behind his back?  They couldn’t possibly understand what he had gone through, or was going through, but they tried to justify their anger towards him?  Without even understanding what was going through his head, what was going through his body, what he had experienced?           

How could they do this?           

But Trowa had brought it on himself.  He knew that.  He had held onto his secret, his abnormality, for years.  But secrets never last forever, he should have remembered that.  Someone always found out.  They were bound to find out because he had insisted on staying close to them.  If he had just told them sooner, it would have been better.  A straight talk would have at least ended things cleanly, with none of this messy dancing around each other.  He should have confessed it, quick and clean, with proper shame, and taken their questions and accusations and disgust like a good boy.  That would have been better.  At least it would have been a higher road then sulking in his bedroom with his head under a pillow.  They might have still respected him if he had done that.  He could have been happy with that.  Right?          

Trowa sucked in a mouthful of pillow to keep from screaming.          

After a moment, Trowa frowned.  He lifted the head from his pillow and listened.  Nothing.  Apart from the steady ice-rain that had started yesterday, nothing.  The knocking and calling had stopped.  He sat up, slowly, and looked at his door.  Maybe they had finally gotten the hint.           

Then he heard the whispers.  No, evidentially they hadn’t.  And as much as he didn’t want to—as much as he was tired at straining at doors to hear them every night—Trowa listened closely.           

“The hell it is,” Duo spat just loud enough to hear.  “He’s doing it on purpose.”           

“Trowa’s not like that,” Quatre argued, but it lacked his usual conviction.  He sounded tired.  “He’s probably just asleep.”           

“Zechs couldn’t have slept through that,” Heero said.  He sounded like the thought made him uncomfortable.          

“Which means he’s ignoring us.”           

“But why would he do that?”          

“I don’t know, Quatre. Maybe for the same reason he’s been ignoring us all week?”           

“I don’t know, but you can’t—”

“Enough,” Heero said, interrupting a potential fight. “We’re already late.  If he’s awake,” and Heero raised his voice just a bit. “Then he’ll know we’re going over to Wufei and Zechs’ and that he’s welcome to come along later.  And if he’s sleeping, we’ll leave him a note and he’ll come when he gets it.”           

“Fine, whatever, sounds about as good as it can be,” Duo muttered.           

Trowa heard them walk away and released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.  He sank back onto the mattress.  He stiffened when he heard a sigh.           

“Trowa,” Quatre murmured, so soft Trowa just barely heard him.  “I hope you are just asleep.”           

Trowa waited until he heard Quatre moved away and then the distant noise of the front door closing.  He waited until the car was pulling out of the driveway and had faded down the road.  Then Trowa buried his face into his comforter.           

It wasn’t particularly comfortable to lay with his face into the comforter.  His bruises still hurt and he was twisted in just the right way to strain his chest and put pressure on his ribs.  He shifted and flinched as he hit a particularly sore spot.  He should move.            

Trowa pressed his face deeper into the bed instead.  With the increased hurt, he had the strange, momentary realization that Catherine would kill him if she saw him like this.  He could almost hear her, scolding him about breaking his already cracked and bruised ribs.           

He rolled onto his side and then sat up.  Catherine couldn’t scold him, though, because she didn’t know.  He had never told her about the field mission, and certainly not that he had fucked it up as badly as he had.  It hadn’t been a good idea to.  Catherine would have been horrified.  Of course, when she found out that he hadn’t told her—because Catherine always managed to find out, it was an annoying and endearing trait she had—she would be even angrier he hadn’t told her.           

Not telling people things was what got him into this in the first place.           

He should call her.  It would be best, since the bruises hadn’t faded and over the phone Trowa could at least mitigate a little the extent of his injuries.  At worst, she would lecture him for his stupidity and warn him to take better care of himself.  Ask him not to worry her.  She’d snap and sigh and make sure he was icing what he needed to and changing the bandages regularly.           

He should call her.           

Trowa stood up and slid off the bed, only really realizing how sore he was once his feet were on the floor.  It had been a little over a week since that night, and every day was a little bit better than the one before, but the pain was still there.  His back was a tender mess of knots; his chest was worse.  Painkillers would help.  At least his ankle was stronger.  Trowa got across the room without it dipping or twinging once.           

Trowa had been planning on making a phone call once he stepped out of his room and into the quiet, dim house.  He wanted to hear Catherine’s voice.  Needed to.  He could curl up in the kitchen by the counters with the phone cradled against his ear and listen to her sigh and tell him he was an idiot and that if he ever did this again she’d strangle him before asking him what he was taking.  He wanted to hear her concern.           

Unfortunately, Trowa didn’t quite make it to the phone.  The table got in the way.           

It was between his room and the phone and on it was a single, small piece of paper.  It was a little crinkled around the edges and pinned underneath a glass at Trowa’s spot.  Even from a distant, Trowa recognized the clean, tight handwriting as Heero’s.  When he neared, Trowa saw there were only a few lines.  He moved the glass and picked it up.           

            _Trowa—_

_Went to Wufei and Zechs’.  Come along when you get this, if you want.  We’ll see you later._

_Heero_            

Trowa pursed his lips.  It read more like an order than a request, and an order he wasn’t particularly keen on obeying.  It wasn’t like it would get any better at their house.  If anything, it would get worse with the two extra presences he would have to find a way to avoid.  Trowa turned back towards the phone.           

Then he noticed the pen sitting next to the note.  Trowa looked at it, then the phone, and then made up his mind.  Snatching up the pen, he scrawled out a shorter and flatter note just under Heero’s.  Trowa tucked the note back under the glass and headed back to his room.  He’d need a sweater and his wallet.          

Trowa checked the windows and doors after he changed and then got his boots.  They would support his ankle better than his normal shoes, and be a little better in the rain and ice besides.  Trowa tugged on his jacket, grabbed his helmet and keys, and headed outside.           

The storm had gotten worse.           

Trowa wasn’t going to lie to himself as he sped down the highway.  The lie he had given in his note was a weak one, but unless Heero called her—and Catherine decided not to back him up—no one would ever know that she hadn’t begged him to come see her.  Hell, they might not even care.  Or be pleased that he was out of the house.           

The rain fell cold and hard.  It seeped under the edge of his helmet and neck of his coat, sinking into his already sore skin and muscles.  This probably wasn’t one of his better ideas.  After a while, his hands were clumsy on the throttle.  His boots barely held.  And the bike itself started to lose more and more grip on the highway.  Trowa ducked low over it as the rain drummed on him, gritting his teeth.          

It felt oddly personal.  Trowa shook the cold off and sped up.  The weather could throw a tantrum all it wanted.  He wasn’t letting it hold him down.           

By the time Trowa reached the muddy circus grounds, he decided he probably should have let the storm knock him over.  He was soaked and trembling when he finally clambered off his bike, ankle turning in despite the stiff boot material around it.  Trowa gripped the handlebars to keep from falling into the mud.  He slipped two more times on the way to the trailer.  The awning was out though, and there were a few relatively dry patches under it.  Trowa set his back in one of the bigger ones, safe on its stand, and hurried to the door.           

Trowa knocked and waited.  After two minutes, he knocked again.  Even after five minutes, no one came to the door.           

Rain dripped down the back of his neck.  Catherine wasn’t that heavy a sleeper.   _She’s not home?_ It was a Saturday afternoon, a messy Saturday afternoon.  They might practice in weather like this, but he would have seen people.  He looked around.  The lights on the ground were off.  The circus master must have let them have the day.           

Which mean that if she wasn’t sleeping, and wasn’t practicing, she was out.  Probably shopping.           

Trowa growled in frustration.  Catherine loved shopping, especially in bad weather; it could be hours before she came home.  He didn’t think he’d last for hours out here, and he didn’t want to get back on the road.  Trowa chewed on his lip as he looked at the door.  Catherine didn’t keep a spare key lying around outside the trailer.  It was too dangerous, and totally unnecessary since she had nothing of that much value and the circus master had a master key.  Breaking in wouldn’t be hard, though.  The lock was basic to a fault.  He could jimmy it easily.           

Catherine wouldn’t mind.  She’d probably be happy to walk in and find him sitting at the table with tea.           

Trowa headed back to his back, shoving his helmet on to the seat.  He squatted down next to his bike to wait.  The rain pounded away at the awning, then came dripping down over the edges.  When the wind kicked up, it sprayed drops at him.  He hunkered down, huddling into himself and ducking his head against his arms.  The position kept most of the rain off but it did nothing for the lingering chill.   _I’m going to get pneumonia if she takes her dear sweet time getting back._

He could spare himself that risk, of course, with breaking and entering.  It was only Catherine’s trailer.  Not so long ago, it was his, too.  She wouldn’t care.  She might complain a little about the water on the floor and him not calling in advance, but she wouldn’t be upset.  Now seeing him squatting in the rain, then she’d be upset.  More than upset, she’d be livid.  It would be much better for the both of them if he just let himself quietly into the trailer.  He could do it in under five minutes.           

Trowa wasn’t going to.  Getting into the Preventer database and changing his records had taken less than five minutes, too.  He had had enough with breaking and entering.   _I’m better off freezing._

After fifteen minutes—maybe it was longer, the cold made his brain fuzzy—Trowa wasn’t sure he was done with it.  His muscles had long since seized up from the cold and the position, and rocking carefully on his heels and balls of his feet wasn’t doing much to get his circulation going.  He needed to get up and walk, move around, but he was too cold and too tired and too heavy for that.  Trowa moved his hands up and down his sides, instead.  It only vaguely dawned on him that wet gloves and wet coat wouldn’t generate much friction.  Trowa grit his teeth as his cold, aching fingers brushed his now aching chest.  Sitting in the rain had been stupid.  He should have gone home.  Why had he even bothered.           

“Are.  You.   _Insane_?”  Oh, that’s right.  He wanted to see Catherine.  If he hadn’t been so cold, Trowa wouldn’t have been surprised by Catherine stomping up to him with her umbrella.  But he was cold.  Deep, bone-chilling cold.  Catherine’s voice knocked him off balance.  He slid sideways into the muddy grass, grimacing as the new and sticky wetness seeped into his clothes.  Trowa flicked mud off his hands and glared up at her through his wet, dripping hair.           

Trowa had seen Catherine angry before; he had only seen her this angry once and he had a bruise for a week to remember it.  Catherine glared down at him from under her umbrella, gripping the cloth grocery bags so hard they trembled.  Her mouth was pulled into a strange expression, as if she was fighting hard between smiling and snarling.           

“Do you have some weird death wish I’m not aware of,” she snapped.           

Oh, he should have waited inside.  He definitely should have waited inside.           

“Catherine,” he said, slowly, carefully.  And it just set her off.           

“It’s not even ten degrees!  It’s the middle of fucking December and you’re sitting outside, in the rain, in the wet grass?  You’re soaked!  You’re half frozen and you’re going to catch pneumonia and you know what?  I’m not going to do a thing to help you if you do because you are the stupidest fucking person and you’d deserve it.  Now get inside!”           

Trowa swallowed slightly and lowered his eyes.  “The door’s locked,” he muttered.           

“As if that’s ever stopped you before,” she snapped.  Still Catherine turned around and stomped towards the trailer.  Trowa thought she was going to rip it off the hinges after she unlocked it and yanked it open.  Suddenly, he was very glad he was out of grabbing distance.           

“Now it’s unlocked,” she said.  “Inside.  Now.”           

Trowa sighed.  He should have just stayed home, sat in the kitchen, and called until she picked up.   _Idiot._

Trowa stood, and the world tilted sharply to the side.  He barely heard Catherine gasp as he staggered.  He bumped into his bike and tried to catch himself on the handlebars as his legs crumpled under him.  His hands wouldn’t close around it and he slid back into the mud.  Trowa threw an arm out, to keep his head up.  There wasn’t any traction.  His hand slid straight ahead and he ended up on his side in the mud.           

“Trowa are you alright,” Catherine asked as she slid down to her knees next to him.  The anger was gone, replaced with stomach-twisting concern.  She brushed hair from his eyes.  He tried to speak, to tell her he was fine and she didn’t need to work.  His throat tightened.  Trowa closed his mouth and dropped his head, trying to breathe.  When he couldn’t, he coughed and it made his whole body hurt.           

“Let’s get you inside.  Come on, up you go.”  Catherine got an arm over her shoulders and lifted.  Sometimes, Trowa forgot she could easily carry more than her weight.  Or in this case his.  He hissed as she pulled him to his feet, a sharp pain lancing across his chest.  “It’s alright.  We’ll get you cleaned up.”  Trowa slipped as his legs struggled to find purchase, but Catherine didn’t let him fall again.  She nearly dragged him to the house, babbling quietly at him.  She managed to coax his legs up the two short stairs, her hand on his back the entire time to keep him steady, and into the trailer.           

Trowa shivered in the dark but Catherine refused to close the door or turn on any lights until he was safely seated at the table.  She watched him for a moment, making sure he wouldn’t slip sideways again, before going back to the door.  She closed it and locked it before going around to all the lights and flicked on the heater.  Once it was light and warmer, Catherine got her grocery bags and put them on the counter.  Trowa watched her empty them as fast as she could, shivering as the water dripped down the back of his neck.  Tightening his arms around his waist, Trowa curled forward, trying to conserve heat.  The floor pitched.  He closed his eyes and held onto the bottom of the chair to stay in it.           

“It’ll be warm in a minute,” she said over her shoulder.  “I’m sorry, I haven’t been home since this morning.  Oh, I wish would had called.  I would’ve left the door unlocked.”  Trowa heard running water.  He tilted his head up.  After a moment, Catherine was at the table and pulling out the other chair.  “Here, sit up a bit.”           

Trowa sat up, slowly to keep the dizziness down.  He flinched from the warm, damp towel Catherine tried to press against his cheek.  She held his wrist gently to keep him still.  Shushing him, Catherine ran the towel carefully over his face.  After a few passes, the heat was pleasant.  Trowa relaxed a little.  He closed his eyes.  Catherine slid her hand off his wrist and down to his, holding his fingers.           

She was treating him like a child who hurt himself, but it felt good.  He took her hand and squeezed a little.           

Trowa almost didn’t notice when Catherine’s hand stopped moving, he felt so comfortable at the table with her hand and the warm towel.  He did, however, notice when she traced one of the bruises on his cheek with her fingers.  His eyes opened.   _Shit!_

“These are bruises.  What happened?”           

Trowa brushed her hand away.  “Nothing,” he said, harsher than he meant.  “They’re nothing.  They’ve been there for a week already—”           

“A week?”  Trowa cursed under his breath.  “You’ve had these for a week and didn’t bother to tell me?  Have you even looked in a mirror in a week?  They’re horrible now, I can’t imagine what they looked like before.”           

“Then don’t.”           

Catherine scowled.  “What did you even do, smash your face into a door for kicks?”           

Trowa rolled his eyes.  “Of course, I have to get my fun some way.”           

“Did you get in a fight,” she demanded.  Trowa sank back into the chair, folding his arms and glaring at the wall.  “You did didn’t you?”  There was a long crack in the side of the trailer.  Trowa tried to remember how it had gotten there.  “What’s wrong with you,” she sighed.  Trowa bit his cheek and tasted blood.  “Look at me, why didn’t you call?”           

“Because it’s none of your damn business!”  Catherine’s chair screeched as she pushed back from him.  “What happened to me is none of your business, okay?  What he did to me isn’t your business, so just—”           

Trowa’s mouth was suddenly stopped with the warm wool of Catherine’s sweater and the muscle and bone underneath it. He squirmed in her grip, but Catherine just held him tighter, locking her arms around his chest and digging into him with her fingers.  The pressure hurt his ribs.  Trowa pushed against her shoulders, grimacing and struggling for breath.  Catherine simply shook her head.  She slid one of her hands into his hair and pressed his forehead down, rather hard, against her shoulder.  And then her hand started to move.  It ran through his hair, her fingers and nails passing gently over his scalp and up and down his neck.  Trowa pushed against her for a little bit longer before finally crumpling into Catherine’s forced but gentle comfort.  He gripped her arms as he buried his face against her shoulder.           

Trowa held onto her, and let himself be held by her, until he started to shiver again.  Finally, Catherine reluctantly let him go.  She sat back and brushed her fingers gently over the bruises.           

“You have to be freezing still,” she said softly.  Catherine pat his check.  “Alright, out of those clothes so I can wash them.  Get in the shower, that’ll warm you up.  I got the good water heater this time.”           

He glanced up at her through his limp hair, then sighed.  “Yes Catherine,” he muttered.  He rose slowly and headed to the bathroom, trying to track as little mud across the room as possible.           

“You really aren’t yourself,” Catherine said quietly.  Trowa glanced back at her, head tilted.  She smiled a little.  “You’re not even fighting me on it.  You hate me mommy-ing you.”           

“No,” he said after a moment.  “I suppose I’m not.  Just, just too tired.”           

Catherine nodded and then waved him gently into the bathroom.  Trowa moved, but lingered by the bathroom door.  He watched Catherine stand and go over to the kitchen counter.  She started a pot of water before rooting around in the cabinets.  Trowa laid his temple against the doorframe before sliding inside the small bathroom and shutting the door behind him.           

Trowa sat down on the toilet as he peeled off his sodden boots and socks.  He left them in the back of the narrow tub to drain.  He reached up and tilted the showerhead so that when he finally started the water—because even the good water heater took a few minutes to heat—the water pooled just a little around the bottoms of his boots.  He didn’t much care about the socks.  Brown already started running and circling around the drain.  Trowa struggled out of his wet shirt then stood to take off his stiff jeans.  It was only then that he remembered he was filthy.  He sighed at the mud stain on the porcelain toilet.  He’d clean it up for her.           

His wet and muddy clothes clung like a second skin, and for a moment Trowa worried he was going to rip something.  Then he lost his grip on his jeans and smacked his elbow into the skin.  After that Trowa didn’t particularly care what he might rip.  He yanked off the rest of his clothes and tossed them by the door.  He’d clean up that stain, too.           

There were clean towels under the sink, just like always.  Trowa managed not to hit his head on the underside of the cabinet, but it was a close thing.  He had forgotten how much he hated this tiny bathroom.  How did Catherine stand it?           

Trowa stepped into the tub, yanking the curtain shut behind him.  But the moment he was under the warm spray, the irritation and anger seeped away.  He tilted his head back into the wet heat.  The water pulsed against his shoulders and neck, driving into the sore muscles.  The heat spread, fast and even, from head to foot.  It was bliss.  Even as the water pounded into the still sensitive bruises on his face and neck.           

Sighing, Trowa lowered his head and opened his eyes.  He watched the mud run in messy rivulets down his arms before running a hand through his hair.  Murky brown water dribbled down his hands.  Trowa watched the brown trails curl over his wrists and elbows, then followed the curves of his bod.  All of his curves.  The brown stained the skin along his chest and then curled around his thighs before starting to spiral down into the water at his feet and towards the drain.           

He sank down into the tub,           

Trowa was still a little too tall to stretch all the way, especially with his boots at the back of the tub.  He folded a leg partly underneath himself and pulled the other towards his chest, until he could rest his chin on his knee.  He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch the water.  Trowa just wanted to feel: feel the water, warm and pleasant, as it washed away some of the aches and pains.           

He wanted to just feel, but Trowa had already seen.           

It would be rude to waste all of Catherine’s hot water, so he hurried through the rest of his shower, washing the mud away as fast, and as painfully, as possible.  He did feel a little better afterwards.  At least a little warmer and a little cleaner, and it was a start.  Trowa stood and let the water run for a minute, until the water circling the drain was clear.  At least he wouldn’t have to clean the tub now.           

He stepped out, carefully, shivering in the cooler air.  The towel barely did anything to warm him.  It hardly covered him.  Trowa dragged it over himself quickly, trying not to look.  It was only when it was dry and covering his hips or chest, but never both, that he wondered what he was going to do about clothes.  He really didn’t want to get back in the cold muddy ones; Catherine wouldn’t let him anyway.  But towels weren’t going to do much.           

He was just about to open the door and call for Catherine when he noticed it: the pile of clothes near the door had changed.  Instead of muddy jeans, sweater and jacket, there was clean flannel.  The pajamas sat on top of another towel to keep them out of the muddy puddle Trowa’s dirty clothes had left behind.           

Catherine must have brought them when he was still in the shower.  Probably when he was sitting in the muddy water, trying not to look.  He shook his head.   _She’s too good to me._

Catherine smiled warmly when he stepped out of the bathroom.  “I thought those would still fit you,” she said over her shoulder.  “They’re a little big.”  She frowned.  “Actually, they’re really big.  You lost weight again, huh?  Well I’ll fix that, dinner’s just about ready.”           

She didn’t have to tell him that.  Trowa could smell dinner.  It filled the trailer with the rich, spicy tang of her soup and the mouth-watering sweetness of fruit.  He almost forgot how uncomfortable the pajamas were, what with the total lack of coverage for his chest and how it rubbed against sensitive skin.           

“Don’t just stand there, have a seat,” she said.  Trowa nodded before padding quietly over to his usual chair.  Catherine brought over a small basket of sliced bread.  She set it on the table before leaning over and kissing the top of his head.  “Unfortunately, I don’t have any more of your hair stuff.  You used it all last time, so you’re just going to have to suffer through it.  But I like your hair life this.  It’s very handsome.”           

Catherine was already heading back to the counter, so she didn’t notice how he had stiffened at the comment.  No.  Never again.  He was never letting it down again.  He would keep hair glue in his pocket for the rest of his left.           

“I’ve got leftover vegetable soup for you, and I sautéed the other vegetables I had.  And there’s some fruit too.  Just bought it today.  Had to practically beat an old lady with my purse to get at some of it.  And bread, of course.  What’s soup without bread?”         

“Thank you Catherine, it all smells good,” he said.  Trowa kept his arms folded and pressed against his stomach, as if the pressure would make it stop growling.  When she finally set a bowl of soup in front of him, with the steam curling so temptingly over the hot surface, Trowa’s stomach lurched with an angry noise of lunch.           

Catherine smiled. “Well go on. I didn’t make it to be stared at.” Trowa glanced at her before carefully unwinding his arms and taking the spoon. Catherine looked thoughtful for a moment before turning back towards the stove. “I’m pretty sure there’s tea left. I’ll make you a mug. And if you’re not warm and toasty by then, well then nothing’s going to help.”           

She was halfway to the stove, so she didn’t see Trowa’s will break. He pounced on the food with all the enthusiasm his manners allowed. The soup was sheer heaven in his mouth. All the right spice and texture, vegetables melting against his tongue in the broth. By the third spoonful, Trowa was able to tell his tsking brain to shut the ever loving fuck up and let him enjoy the food.           

 _I’ll starve myself later, alright? Let me eat._

Catherine let out a startled but good natured laugh when she put a mug of tea down next to his bowl. “I hope you’re actually chewing because I don’t think I can manage a heimlich on you.” She sat down across from him with her own mug before reaching across from a piece of bread. Catherine ripped off a chunk and popped it into her mouth. After watching him satisfy his hunger for a few minutes, she shook her head. “You’d think you hadn’t eaten in days, way you’re going at it,” she laughed. “I mean, I know you love my food and all but—why did you wince?”           

Trowa hadn’t felt himself wince, but he must have. Catherine was observant and always careful not to try and wheedle things out of him without some sort of clue or cue. Trowa swallowed a spoonful of soup before setting the spoon down in his almost-empty bowl.           

“I’m sorry.”           

Catherine’s eyes narrowed a little. “You winced,” she said again.           

“Did I?” He met her glare with a mild neutral expression. Trowa held it as long as it could before the guilt made him look away.           

“You did,” she confirmed. “You have been eating, haven’t you Trowa?”           

“Catherine—”           

“Haven’t you?” Catherine’s voice took on the hard edge that almost always preluded an angry lecture. Lying would only make it worse at this point. Biting back a sigh, Trowa linked his hands in front him. Pressing his forehead to them, he finally shook his head. Trowa heard the angry intake of breath and braced himself.           

“When was the last time you ate?”           

“A week,” he said after a beat of silence. “Give or take.”           

“God damn it, Trowa, are you insane,” Catherine snapped, slamming her mug on the table. Trowa closed his eyes. Didn’t they have this argument earlier? “No wonder you practically inhaled that. No wonder you collapsed! I’m amazed you got here in one piece.”           

Trowa sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He deserved this, mostly because it was an incredibly stupid thing to do but partly because he had been too stupid not to keep himself in better control around her. Trowa flinched as Catherine pushed her chair back, the legs screeching on the floor. He half expected her to hit him; he didn’t expect her to stomp away. Trowa lifted his head.          

Catherine was halfway to the wall phone. Trowa stiffened.           

“Fucking ridiculous, those idiots should at least make sure you’re taking care of yourself. They of all people should know how you get sometimes.”           

No. No, not good. Definitely not good.           

Trowa scrambled out of his chair and was across the room before Catherine got to the phone to her ear. He pushed down hard on the cradle, cutting the connection and blocking the numbers. Catherine looked ready to beat him around the head with the phone.           

“Trowa Barton!”           

“No,” he said. Trowa yanked the phone from her and hung it up. Catherine bristled.           

“What do you mean ‘no’?”           

“No. Just no,” he spat. Catherine glared at him as he headed back to the table, but she didn’t go for the phone again. At least not yet.           

“Why not,” she asked, hands on her hips.           

“Because,” he snapped. Trowa snatched up his tea and drained it. His hands were shaking so badly he nearly spilled it. “They’re not even home, anyway.”           

“They’re not?”           

“No, they’re visiting Zechs and Wufei. They probably won’t be back for another few hours.”           

Catherine frowned a little. “Wufei. He works with you, he worked with you. In the war, right? And Zechs works with you now. They’re your friends.” _That’s one way to look at it._ Trowa didn’t trust himself to speak so he nodded. “Why didn’t you go with them then? Weren’t you invited?”           

Trowa ground his teeth until his jaw started to hurt. “Yes,” he managed.           

“Then why didn’t you go?           

“Because.”           

“Because isn’t a reason.”           

The hell it wasn’t. “Fine. Because I didn’t feel like it.”           

“Why not?”           

“I just didn’t feel like doing that to myself, okay?”           

If Trowa expected her to understand, he was disappointed. Catherine frowned more. “Do what to yourself,” she asked. Trowa looked away. For a moment, it was silent but then Catherine took a step.  And another, and another, until she was in front of him, cupping his face in her hands.           

“Did something happen, Trowa,” she asked, expression now softened with concern. “Did you guys get in a fight?” _God, I wish it had been a fight._ He sighed and shook his head. “Then what? What happened?”           

Trowa didn’t answer. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, because he knew that answering would pull the warm soothing touch of Catherine’s hands from his face. Right now, that was all he wanted. Trowa kept his eyes closed. If he opened them, the warmth would disappear.           

But Trowa also knew that his silence would make Catherine’s suspicions grow. And left alone, that suspicion could lead her to do stupid, unnecessary, unwanted things. Like call them to get the story. Trowa couldn’t trust them not to answer her.           

Trowa sighed. “They know,” he said finally, voice barely rising above a whisper. He felt her lean closer. Trowa licked his lips, not wanting to say it again but knowing he had no choice. His voice shook. “They know. All of them. They, they know.”           

“Know what?” Trowa opened his eyes and stared for a moment before pulling away. He pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. “Trowa, what do they—”           

“They _know_ , Catherine,” he ground out. “What, what I am. They know.”           

Trowa expected shock. Concern. Maybe even fear for him. She knew how he felt. But Trowa didn’t expect glee. His mouth opened when Catherine took both his hands and squeezed them, a wide relieved smile on her face.           

“You told them. You finally told them, oh Trowa, thank god, you—”           

Trowa yanked himself away. “What’s wrong with you? Tell them? No I didn’t tell them! If I had my way, no one would ever know!”           

“Well if you didn’t tell them,” Catherine snarled back, “who did?”           

Trowa opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Snapping it closed, he turned way. Catherine followed him. Her eyes ran over his face and neck, lingering on the bruises.           

“Did they do this to you,” she asked. Trowa swallowed, wishing he hadn’t said anything. He closed his eyes tightly, and immediately regretted. Kader’s face flashed, with that wide, white grin. Trowa could almost feel him, the hands around his throat and on his chest and between his legs. Trowa forced his eyes open. He could barely breathe.  “Oh my god, they did.”           

Trowa shook his head and pulled away. He needed a distraction.  Something. Anything. Trowa stumbled towards the sink. His mug broke against the edge of the counter when he dropped it.           

Catherine didn’t notice. “Those bastards. I’ll kill them. After everything you went through together! Those sons of bitches, if they think—”           

“They didn’t,” he managed. Trowa clutched the edge of the sink as his stomach lurched. “They, they haven’t touched me.” His fingers trembled. Trowa’s head dropped. “They saved me.”          

Catherine hovered behind him. “Saved you? From what?”           

Trowa opened his mouth and a soft, high noise fluttered up from his throat. Catherine’s fingers were suddenly on his cheek. Trowa stared at the sink and the pieces of broken ceramic on the counter as her fingers moved in slow, slightly curling lines down his face. Trowa’s fingers trailed after them. His fingers came away from his cheek wet. He stared at his wet fingers. Now he tasted it, the salt on his tongue as the lines fell fasters. Trowa’s lip trembled. He clenched his fist and brought it down hard on the sink.          

Catherine’s hand slid down his face to his shoulder.           

There was a low, painful ringing in his ears. Behind that, though, he heard the voices. Laughing, purring, whispering. And behind that, Trowa heard soft, choking cries that, for some reason, matched the rhythm of Trowa rapid swallowing.           

Trowa fell to his knees, falling forward until his head hit the cabinet. He tugged at his hair until Catherine sank down beside him. She pulled his hands away and wrapped them around his waist with her own. She rest her chin on his shoulder, attempting to coax. To comfort.           

Trowa shut his eyes and screamed.

  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trowa tries to understand, and then goes to a bar.

 

This would be the third time Trowa had woken up since Catherine had tucked him into the couch. He wasn’t sure how she expected him sleep after that…display. But Catherine had always been a bit more optimistic than she probably should be.           

Trowa ran trembling fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. Cold sweat clung to him. Shivering, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and breathed deeply. Or tried to. It was difficult, what with the images flickering across the backs of his eyelids and someone whispering in his ear. Trowa shook his head.           

They weren’t real. They couldn’t be real. It was over; it was in the past. These were just figments of his stupid, overactive imagination. They weren’t there. They couldn’t hurt him. They couldn’t touch him.           

Except Trowa didn’t actually believe that. He couldn’t.           

Trowa thought he finally was falling into a doze, but then he shot up off the couch from the touches. The phantom fingers skittered away from his arms and legs under the sharp pain of his quick, jerky movements. Groaning, Trowa sank into the corner of the couch. He glanced at the bedroom door. Catherine’s light was off, and the trailer was still quiet. He hadn’t woken her up. Again.           

Trowa dragged his knees to his chest and held them. The mild smell of now-cold jasmine tea drifted up to his noise. He hadn’t managed to drink it all before nodding off the first time he had woken up. And he had completely forgotten it was there the second time. Shivering, Trowa wrapped the blanket tight around his shoulders and glanced down at the mug. If he wasn’t going to drink it, he should dump it out. Trowa pressed more into the corner. It was so cold, though, and he would definitely wake her if he started stumbling around in the dark.  _ I’ve woken her up enough already. _ __

Catherine had stayed up with him for several hours before deciding the best thing for him—and for her but Catherine would never say that—was to try and sleep. It had taken Trowa nearly an hour to calm down; even know his throat hurt from the screaming and crying. So did he knees, for that matter. Catherine had fought him almost tooth and nail for ten minutes to get him from the floor to the couch, which was an infinitely better place to be hysterical. Or at least more comfortable.           

Trowa was sure he had kicked her at least once, and when they got to the couch, she had had to hold him there. Which had made the hysteria worse until she pulled him into a crushing hug. Then Trowa simply refused to let go of her.           

When the hysteria had died down to the merely viscerally upset, it had taken him nearly an hour to actually to talk to her.           

Trowa still wanted to kick himself for that pathetic reaction. He knew he was better than that, that he had more control than that. He had dealt with some much more than this. Worse than this. Without a sniffle. _This is ridiculous. You’re fucking ridiculous._ He still didn’t understand how it happened. It was like something inside him just broke. Something he didn’t even know existed just disappeared, and all his fought-for calm had dissolved into total chaos. He had drowned in that pent-up-and-suddenly-released sadness and fear and anger. When he had come up for air at last, Trowa’s body had shut down.           

The mind-numbing exhaustion wasn’t as bad now, at least. He had barely kept his head up before, letting it lay against Catherine’s stomach or chest when she was there and the couch when she wasn’t. He had endured her fussing over him without so much as a glower because Trowa just didn’t have the energy to fight her.           

He hadn’t had the energy to ignore or deflect her questions either.           

Trowa couldn’t answer her verbally then; his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. But he had nodded or shook his head against her stomach to the myriad of questions she pushed at him. For once, Catherine didn’t insist they weren’t answer. She understood that it was the best he could do.           

When she finally realized that even that was too much, Catherine had just held him. Held him and hugged himself so tightly Trowa’s chest hurt. He hadn’t complained, though. He had buried his face in her fleece-covered shoulder and bit back a new wave of hysterics.           

Trowa groaned, sinking onto his side on the couch. He curled into the blanket, tugging the edges around his feet and head. It was warm and thick, but not so thick that he wouldn’t be able to see the light under the bedroom door. If it came on, Trowa would be able to feign sleep until she decided not to check on him.           

After a while, though, when the blanket was less warm and more stifling, Trowa pushed it quietly off. The trailer was quiet, minus the occasional creak or groan that came with the wind. He rolled onto his back, the cushion squeaking under him. The bedroom remained closed. He sighed and brushed his hair back before letting his hand fall over the edge of the couch. His fingers brushed the cool ceramic of the mug. Trowa shifted until he could just see the shadow of the handle in the dark.           

Picking the mug up in the dark while lying down was not the best idea, but he managed it. Trowa propped himself up a little, fingers tense around the handle of the mug. He swirled the cold tea, listening to it slosh against the sides. Trowa squared his shoulders before downing the cold remains.

He shuddered and nearly spit it. Nearly. _Still hate cold tea_.            

Trowa fished around for his socks. He had kicked them off at some point, and hard enough that they had ended up half under the couch. They were cold but not nearly as cold as the floor. He could deal with them. Trowa stood carefully after getting his socks on. He felt stiff and sore, and his head spun once he was upright. Still, Trowa shuffled towards the sink, careful not to wake Catherin. He kept a hand out to feel around the tables and chairs as he headed for the counter.           

He managed not to make a sound until his knee connected with the cabinet.           

Trowa whipped his head towards the door and stared at it for a good minute before putting the mug in the sink. He turned the tap on slowly until just a steady drip of water trickled into the mug. He shut it off quickly, then swished the dregs in the finger-full of water. He laid it on its side to drain.  _ You’re fucking pathetic. She’s not going to wake up, not after all that. You fucking exhausted her. She wouldn’t hear you if you started juggling her plates.  _ He was terrible at juggling so she would definitely hear it.  _ Wash the mug like a normal person, you idiot. Stop being sneaky, stop being timid. Wash the fucking mug. _ __

Trowa left the mug on its side. Sighing, Trowa ducked his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What’s the matter with you,” he muttered, eyes closing. “Get a fucking grip.”           

_“Interesting. Very interesting.”_ Kader purred into Trowa’s ear, too close to be anything but real. There was heat on him, warmth moist breath. Trowa gasped, stumbling backwards until his feet tangled. He tumbled to the floor, looking around in the dark. _“If you aren’t going to behave, then I’m not going to be considerate.”_ Trowa felt the color drain from his face. He heard, almost distantly, a high, distant whining. It took him a minute to realize it was coming from his throat.           

_ “Beautiful…” _ __

Trowa scrambled backwards, kicking along the floor until sharp pain burst at the back of his head. He fell onto his back as something crashed behind him. Panting, sprawled on the floor, he looked around. He caught sight of a shadow looming over him. A second high whine struggled out of his throat as he kicked and shook his head. Trowa lashed out with his fists, his knuckles eventually connecting with the shadow. The blow hurt, and it made the shadow jolt and fall back with a rattle thud.           

It was just enough. Trowa laid on the floor, panting and head ringing. After a moment of panicky convincing, he reached slowly towards the shadow. His fingers flinched from the smooth surface. Swallowing, Trowa poked at it before wrapping his fingers around it. It was hard and slender. Cylindrical. Trowa slid his hand along the hard, slender shadow, eventually bumping into something equally hard. On the other side, it ended on a rounded end.           

The shadow sharpened with recognition.           

A chair. A chair leg, to be exact. Trowa stared at it and then let his hand drop. It must have fallen over. He must have knocked it over, with his head considering the painful knot building at the back of it. That would also explain the crash that he thought he heard. Yes, he must have knocked it over when he was trying to escape.           

_Escape what?_ Trowa ground his teeth. The night? The cold? _A fucking shadow._ Trowa rolled over and rose onto his knees, stiff and angry. He yanked the chair up and shoved it under the table. How stupid was he? He knew how overactive his imagination was. How could he have given it the leverage, the opportunity, to make him devolve into a quivering child? With just the memory of a voice and the idea of hands in the dark.           

God, he had been close to  _ begging _ .

“You’re fucking pathetic,” Trowa growled, beating his fist into the floor. “Get over it. Now.” His heart pounded in his chest, and seemed to get faster every second. “Damn it, it’s over. He attacked you. So what?” Trowa could barely get the words out.

“Grow up,” he spat. “He’s not the first, and he’s probably not the last. You don’t even remember it. You blacked out. You should be fucking thankful.” He felt the warm stinging at the corner of his eyes. “It’s not like you had something to lose. Nothing’s changed. You’re still the same used up freak you were the night before.”

Tears slid down his face. “God damn it,” he choked. “Haven’t you cried enough today?” It wasn’t something to cry over. It wasn’t, but that didn’t stop it. Breath hitching, Trowa bent forward until his head touched the floor. He dug his nails into his sides as he tried to swallow the sobs.

It just wasn’t fair. He had trained himself to be better than this. Crying had never gotten him anywhere before—at least not anywhere good—so Trowa taught himself just not to give into it. And now, now was no different than then. It wasn’t. Honestly, it had been better. One asshole instead of a half-dozen.  _ So why can’t I control myself now? What’s the difference? _

Now, well, now he had things to lose.

Cursing, Trowa dragged himself to his feet, catching himself on the table when he swayed. He rubbed at his eyes, growling when the tears slid along his fingers. Lurching from the table, he stumbled to the door and his boots. Catherine had moved them sometime between the hysterics and bed. A puddled had pooled under them. Balancing on the door, Trowa shoved his feet into them. He shivered. Damp, but dry enough. His jacket was a bit better, only clinging to him a little bit. Trowa zipped it up tightly.

He glanced back. Catherine’s light was still out, but probably not for much longer. Already he thought he heard her stirring. The duvet being pushed back.

Trowa pressed back into the door, gripping the handle behind him and turning it slowly. When it clicked he pushed the door open until it was just wide enough to slip out. Trowa shut it noiselessly behind him—after making sure it was unlocked, of course.  She would kill him otherwise.

Outside, Trowa turned. Snow had finally come, and it made the grounds still and white. It must have replaced the driving ice and rain hours ago, considering the inch or two that was sticking, and it was still drifting down from the black, quiet sky. The wind had died down, too, to just the barest breezes that kicked up light plumes of snow before slipping away. Trowa stood for a moment, watching the snow spiral delicately to the ground.

Then he tilted his head back and let the cool flakes land softly on his cheeks and forehead, his eyes and mouth. The uncomfortable heat and the lingering filthiness that came with that fresh bout of misery start to melt.           

He took his time walking the grounds, hands deep in his pockets. A turn about the circus. Maybe two. That was all he needed. A little peace and quiet, and with the snow falling as it was, it shouldn’t be too long until his tracks were filled in. No one would ever know. No one would ever be able to ask.

He picked his way carefully, sidestepping the wires, ropes, and tent pegs that were now cleverly hidden under the snow. His feet remembered the layout well for someone who didn’t come by much anymore. Trowa finished one slow pass around the grounds and then started a second circuit, this one a little smaller. He passed familiar tents and trailers and was oddly comforted to know that their occupants were sleeping and had no idea he was wandering the grounds.           

As he neared the end of his second circuit and was considering a third, Trowa started to shiver. Snow caked his hair and somehow managed to seep into his coat. He should go inside, before he got sick.           

The quiet was just too good to pass up. Trowa closed his eyes and started the third. Of course he wasn’t too surprised when he ran into something.           

Trowa rubbed his nose as he looked up at the large tent, its flap secured tightly against the cold and wind. It was fitting, actually, that he’d stop here. It wouldn’t be the first time Trowa made a nighttime visit; if the tea didn’t help before, he’d usually come here to calm down with the familiar noises and sounds.           

Of course, he might not let Trowa in…           

After looking left and right, Trowa undid the flap and slipped inside. He fastened it from the inside with just a little difficulty. Turning around, Trowa breathed deeply and then sighed. The animal tent was warm and _alive_ , the fresh smells of skin and fur mixing mostly pleasantly with those of food and bedding. Not so pleasantly with the droppings, but the noisome under-scent was just as he remembered. In the dim, Trowa could hear the grunts and grumbles of the sleeping animals. Occasionally there was the rustle of hay or the rattling of a loose bar as they shifted.           

He moved quietly through the tent, damp dirt and grass and hay squelching beneath his boots. Some of the animals shifted as he past, the shadows of their ears or tails flicking as they caught his movements and scent. Or dreamed. He wondered for a moment if animals dreamed the way humans did, and then decided he really didn’t want to know.

Before reaching the cage he was aiming for, Trowa stopped. The refrigerator was just where he remembered it being, the low hum of the electricity helping him to locate it even in the dim. He grabbed the cold metal handle and pulled it open, just enough that he could see inside. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb the animals. The bare bulb nearly blinded him. He squinted into the refrigerator and then found the plate he was looking for. Trowa reached for it, paused, and then fished an apple out of the crisper first. There were always apples; they were an excellent treat, and Trowa hadn’t had one himself either in what felt like forever.           

Plate in hand and apple hanging from his mouth, Trowa closed the refrigerator door and continued to the cage. His teeth ached a little from holding the stem, but there was no way he was going to eat an apple that had been sitting on a steak. Especially not a raw steak.           

The lion lifted his head at the sound of Trowa turning the key in his cage and opening it. A low growl rumbled up from his thick throat. Trowa stopped in the doorway. He wouldn’t take any chances. Friend or not, the lion might not appreciate Trowa waking him up in the middle of the night, or not being around recently, and any other number of things. And if he was angry enough, he would take a deserved swipe at Trowa.           

The gold eyes caught the little light available and glowed in the dark. They stared at Trowa for several long minutes. Trowa clenched down on the stem in his mouth.           

Finally, the lion huffed and lowered his head back to his front paws. The gold eyes disappeared as he closed his eyes. Trowa shifted his weight. It wasn’t a comforting or welcome gesture, but it wasn’t outright rejection either. A snub, if anything else. He could handle that; he’d been handling quite a bit of snubbing recently.  _ Besides, he might be a little more welcoming when he sees what he gets out of the deal. _ __

Trowa slowly into the cage, paying close attention to the tone of the growls. Warning, at the moment. Mild and tired, not quite dangerous. Yet. Trowa stopped just outside of the reach of the sluggish paw swipe. He crouched down with the plate. Watching him carefully, Trowa set the plate down on the hay. He nudged it further and then hobbled back a step.           

He waited, staring at the lion and the lion staring back at him with one large eye. He tried to keep eye contact for as long as he can, breaking it only to glance down at the offering between them. The lion didn’t move. Trowa’s legs started to cramp and he wondered if a late-night snack was, in fact, not enough to put him in the lion’s good graces after waking him up.           

Suddenly the lion lurched. Trowa couldn’t stop himself from scuttling back as the lion heaved himself p. He growled, low in his throat and louder this time, and fixed Trowa with a stare. He stepped forward and suddenly Trowa didn’t have time or space to duck. This was the stupidest—

The lion dropped to the ground, sudden and hard enough to knock Trowa backwards. The apple popped from his mouth. On his ass, Trowa stared at the lion as he started to lazily tear into the meat. Trowa smiled a little.           

“So does this mean you’re not mad,” he asked, picking the apple up from his lap. He waited a moment before inching closer. He ran a hand through the thick mane, enjoying the familiar warmth and texture. The lion glanced up at him, huffed around his food, and then began a reluctant purr.           

“Not mad,” he decided, scratching the lion behind the ear. The purr turned more enthusiastic. “What Manuel doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?”           

Crates of varying sizes cluttered two of the cage’s corners, some of them too chew up and clawed apart to consider as anything but scrap. Trowa found one that would support his weight, sat down and started brushing his apple off on his wet sleeve. It was a silly habit but one that he just couldn’t break. He bit into the cold, hard flesh. The crunch was abnormally loud in the dark. Juice dripped down his fingers as he chewed. Trowa licked them clean, and then noticed the sharp, almost disapproving stare the lion had.           

“I don’t complain about your preferences, so don’t glare at me about mine.”           

They were quiet for a while, chewing their food and just enjoying each other’s company. Or at least Trowa was. He couldn’t exactly speak for the lion. Trowa closed his eyes as he enjoyed his apple. The sweetness wasn’t spoiled in the slightest by the smell and sound of raw meat. And oddly enough, the other animals didn’t seem bothered by them either. He supposed that it was a matter of habit. Various food smells permeated the tent so they must have gotten used to lingering smell of eat. They were on strict eating schedules, too, so they probably didn’t notice food, or the sound of chewing, outside of their usual eating time. Of course, it was the middle of the night, well outside any of their eating times. They should notice.

Trowa was jolted out of his thoughts when a weight suddenly settled into his lap. He looked down at the large head rest on his thighs. He frowned slightly. The two of them had always been close, as close as a lion and human could ever really get, outside of hand raising a cub or living with a pride. But they had never had this level of physical affection. At least not that he remembered.

Part of him said it was a bad idea, a very bad idea, but Trowa still leaned forward. He slipped his hands into the thick name, wrapping it around his fingers. He waited until he felt a low rumbling vibrating in his palms and down his legs and then bent forward more. He pressed his cheek, and then his face, into the warm fur, sighing as he breathed in the pleasant scent.           

Trowa flinched as he pressed a little too hard and dull pain radiated out from the bruises. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind him that they were there. There and bad enough to attract attention. Bad enough to bare his weakness. The corners of Trowa’s eyes burned. _Damn it, not again._ He rubbed his face in the mane, but the tears still slipped down his face. The lion shifted, pushing Trowa back as he lifted his head.           

“Sorry,” Trowa muttered as he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s been, it’s been a couple of days.” The lion nudged Trowa’s thigh with his head.           

“What,” he muttered. The lion stared at him, then pawed just enough at his pants to pull a little. Trowa frowned. “What?” He let out a noise as a sharp pain pricked his thigh. Trowa scowled at the tooth now poking him through the flannel bottoms. “These aren’t mine, you know, and I know Catherine won’t appreciate teeth marks in her pajamas.”           

The lion huffed but pulled away. He rounded the crate and then flopped down beside it. Trowa sighed. He laid back on the crate, pressing his hands into his eyes. When he let his hands drop and dangle above the hay, Trowa realized the lion was staring at him, paws folded neatly under his chin.  Like he was expecting something.

Trowa supposed he could talk to him. At the very least, he wouldn’t have to worry about a lion telling anyone. Or looking at him in disgust, or pity. But Trowa had talked enough in the last few hours. Talked enough and cried enough and embarrassed himself enough. He didn’t need to talk about it anymore. There was nothing  _ to _ talk about. It was over, it had happened. Talking wasn’t going to change anything. It wouldn’t undo what happened. It wouldn’t change their response. It wouldn’t make them forget.

“It’s not fair,” he muttered. “They aren’t supposed to know. It’s not supposed to be this way.”

Trowa isn’t sure how he forgot he was lying on a rather narrow crate, but he managed it. So when he rolled onto his side to curl up, he toppled off. The straw-strewn ground was partially frozen, even with human traffic and the warmth of animals. It knocked the breath out of him, but Trowa still laid there. He curled into himself, clenching his jaw against the shivers and the noise that was trying to slither out of his throat. He took a deep breath and ducked his head to push it back down.           

A warm weight settled down behind him. Trowa jerked at it, but then unfolded himself and turned into the solid mass of life. He could feel his heart pounding in his head. Breathing as deeply as he dared, Trowa closed his eyes and let his head rest against the lion for as long as the lion would allow.           

The lion shift once, just to move his paw from under Trowa’s shoulder and lay it on his other paw under his chin.

Trowa didn’t know how long he laid that like, in the dark, nestled against a lion he had known for a few years. It was long enough, though, Trowa was startled by a dull pain on the top of his head. He ignored it the first time, just brushing his fingers over his hair before curling back up. The second one, though, made him open his eyes; you just didn’t ignore a lion when it growled and nudged you in the head with his nose.           

“What,” he groaned, lifting his face from the far. A paw landed carefully on top of his head. It pushed, claws still buried in the pads. Trowa grunted but rolled away. “Tired of me already,” he asked as he stretched. The lion huffed. He inched towards Trowa and then butted against Trowa until somehow he got his nose beneath his back. He pushed Trowa up. “Okay, okay. I’m up, I’m—”           

The tent was light. Not the yellow glow of full morning, but yellow enough to be at least an hour after dawn. Pale gold seeped through the cracks in the canvas and fell in narrow strips across the ground.  _ I fell asleep. When did I fall asleep?  _ It didn’t matter. Trowa did, and if he didn’t leave soon, he was going to get caught.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching back and petting the lion’s mane, “that would have been awkward. Thanks.”           

Trowa stumbled to his feet after one more stroke of the lion’s mane. He paused at the cage door, glancing back. The lion paced slowly around the crates before dropping heavily to the ground again. He crossed his paws, sighed, and closed his eyes. His breathing evened out, and Trowa suddenly wondered if the lion had slept at all while he was there.

Trowa slipped out of the cage, locked it, and hurried to the tent flap. The light outside was already blinding. The sun had rised just enough to turn the white, snowy grounds into a giant glare. Trowa squinted as he fastened the tent flap and then picked his way back to the trailer.           

The trailer was dark and quiet when Trowa slid silently back inside and shut the door. He blinked hard as splotches of red and purple crossed his vision from the sudden shift from light to dark. Trowa returned his boots and jacket to their places by the door before creeping back to the awful couch. He curled up underneath the blanket, tucking it around his feet before burying his face in the cushion. He closed his eyes. He just needed to rest them for a minute, to get rid of the annoying light spots. It wouldn’t take long.           

After a while, a soft weight appeared on Trowa’s cheek. It moved in slow, gentle circles. Trowa sighed and turned into the soothing touch. He heard soft, not-so-distant laughter and frowned a little. Shifting, Trowa opened his eyes. Catherine’s nose was just a few inches from his.

She chuckled when he gasped and jerked into the back of the couch. “Good morning Trowa,” she said, stroking his hair.

Trowa didn’t push her hand away. “Good morning, please don’t do that.”           

“Sorry, Trowa, I won’t do it again,” she promised. She tucked some hair behind his ear. “I made breakfast. Go get dressed while I get everything on the table. Your clothes are in the bathroom, they should be dry by now.”           

“Thank you.” Catherine nodded and pat his hand before getting up. Trowa took his time, stretching and sitting up slowly, rubbing out the soreness in his back and legs. When he did finally get to the bathroom, his clothes were indeed there, hanging over the shower curtain. Trowa fingered his shirt and pants. Cold and stiff, but dry. That was all that mattered.

“Someone looks better,” Catherine said with a smile when Trowa came out a few minutes later. He shrugged. “Well, you do.”           

“If you say so.” She pouted and swatted at him with a dishtowel.

“Go sit down and eat, smart ass.”           

Trowa ducked under the swing but headed towards his seat. He paused as he neared it, staring down at the table. Catherine was clearly expecting other people; there were a number of breakfast options, and far too many bowls of fruit and bread. It was enough to feed a small army.  _ Or Heero and Duo after a workout. _ __

“Expecting company,” he asked as he sat down and reached for his tea.

“Nope.”           

“Got a little happy with your mixing bowl then this morning?”           

“It’s called ‘leftovers,’ and considering how hungry you were last night, I’m very confident you’ll eat most of it.”           

“Not the bacon,” he said, eyeing it with distaste. Catherine reached over and moved it to her side of the table.           

“Not the bacon. Eat.”           

Trowa was halfway through his tea and his second roll when Catherine set a bowl in front of him. She chuckled at how he tried to hide the devoured roll in his hands. He popped the rest of it in his mouth when she turned her back. Trowa looked at the bowl, and then froze. The too-familiar smell of cinnamon and nutmeg reached his nose. He swallowed as the bread threatened to come back up.

He took the spoon with a surprisingly steady hand. The first spoonful tasted just like Quatre’s, and it was awful. The second one was just as bad.

Trowa managed not to let the distress show on his face, since Catherine smiled as she sat down with her own bowl.           

“Good,” she asked between spoonfuls. Trowa swallowed thickly before nodding.           

“Very, very good,” he managed.          

“I’m glad. I actually swiped this off Quatre, and he never writes his recipes down, so—” Trowa just couldn’t hide the flinch. Catherine noticed it immediate. She thankfully didn’t ask; instead she bit down on whatever she wanted to stay and stared at the porridge with mild horror. Trowa sighed softly and took another bite. It was a little easier, but it wasn’t until after his third that Catherine continued eating.           

Neither of them seemed very fond of it anymore. They pushed the bowls away after a while and picked at the other food on the table.           

“Trowa,” Catherine said, finally breaking the silence after a few long, painfully-awkward minutes. She pulled apart a roll with nervous fingers. “Listen. I, I know that it’s, it’s difficult. But—”           

“Don’t,” Trowa said, cutting her off as kindly as he could. “Please, don’t. I really don’t, don’t want to talk about this. Not right now”           

Catherine stared for a moment before standing. Trowa swallowed and stared down at his hands. He could have said that better. A lot better. So when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and squeezed, he couldn’t stop himself from tensing.           

“Whenever you’re ready,” she insisted. Trowa let out a relieved sigh, leaning his head back onto her shoulder.  _ And if that’s never? _ __

Trowa lost his appetite first, so he started to clear the table. He had apparently eaten enough, though, that Catherine didn’t complain too much. Catherine slipped into conversation mode as he started carry empty and half-empty plates to the counter and looking for Tupperware and plastic bags for leftovers. There had apparently been a number of things that she had been “dying” to tell him, things she hadn’t gotten to last night but which were completely unrelated to last night and were, therefore, perfectly safe.           

The conversation was blissfully one-sided. Catherine chatted between sips of coffee, changing topics whenever she saw fit. Trowa nodded and shrugged when appropriate but most concentrated on leftovers and dishes. He even threw in a “is that so” when he came over to refill her coffee mug for her. Catherine smiled brightly at that.           

Halfway through the dishes, Catherine changed topics completely. “I have some errands I need to do today,” she said. Trowa looked over his shoulder as, elbow deep in soapy water, he looked for the plate that had slipped through his fingers. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two. You can relax here, or take a walk and visit. Whatever you like. And when I get back, I’ll make us a nice early dinner so you can head back before dark. You work tomorrow right?”           

Trowa nodded. “Yeah.”           

“I’ll make sure I’m home before 1. Noon if I can manage it.”           

“That’s very kind of you,” he said as he rinsed the last plate and started on the cutlery. “But wouldn’t it be better if I came with you?”           

“Trowa,” Catherine said. “You _hate_ shopping.”            

No. Trowa loathed shopping. But Catherine was fond of it, and he was fond of her. And when it came down to it, trudging along behind her as she skipped from store to store would be much better than being alone. Especially with how treacherous his brain has been recently.           

He shrugged. “I just thought you might need a hand carrying things. And I don’t know when I’ll be able to come back next. So—”           

Catherine set a hand on his shoulder to warn him before she hugged him from behind. “You’re such a liar. But a very sweet liar.”           

“I never said I was going to enjoy it. Just that I would help.” Catherine huffed and pinched his cheek. She laughed and ducked out of the way of the dishwater he splashed at her.           

Catherine helped him put away the rest of the food and the cleaned dishes, so the rest of the clean-up went quickly. They put on coats and shoes, after Catherine found a spare pair of gloves for him. They were just this side of too small but Trowa didn’t complain. His own were still soaked. Catherine went out first. Trowa locked the door behind them.           

It was almost nine, but the snow had given the circus a slow start. They passed very few people as they cross the grounds. They stopped to say good morning to the ringmaster. He muttered something that could pass as a greeting before stomping off, growing about lazy performers and tent hands. And they saw Manuel. Coming out of the animal tent. With what looked like a plate.

No, Trowa couldn’t have been that stupid.

He was too far away to do anything more than wave in their direction, but the gesture was half-hearted for the usual genial, energetic man. He was far too focused on the plate—because it was the plate and he had been that stupid—in his hand. Manuel's hand broke off the wave half way through, moving to run confusedly through his hair. Once the skirted the main ten, Trowa dared to look back. Manuel’s shoulders rose and fell, before he tucked the plate under his arm and headed towards the trailers.

Trowa barely managed to hold in a sigh.

“Next time you decide to take a midnight stroll,” Catherine said once they were off the grounds and on the road, “that might end with a lion cage, take the plate with you. Manuel’s not that forgetful.”

Trowa, hands deep in his pockets, started at her, mouth closed only because his jaw had locked. Catherine just smiled.

“I heard the chair.”  _ Of course you did.  _ “And when I went to check on you, you were gone, with jacket and boots.”

“I went for a walk,” he said shrugging.

“You don’t do midnight walks.”

“It was three in the morning and sometimes I do. It’s a recent habit.”

“Got it,” she said. They walked up the road into the city proper. They passed a bookstore and a small café before Catherine spoke again. “I’m sure you noticed that those foot prints only went from my door to the tent, right?”

“No they didn’t, I went around—” Catherine’s smile widened just as Trowa caught himself. He sighed and shook his head as she slipped her arm through his. “Sometimes, Catherine.”

*-----*-----*

“Poison, pal,” asked the bartender. He had to be only a couple of years older than Trowa, and if Trowa was in a different mood, or even really paying attention, he would have found the man handsome. Tall and lean and not the quite lean the way Trowa was lean, with dark hair and fine, high cheek bones. His nose and eyebrow were pierced in addition to his ears, but the jewelry was all tasteful. Silver hoops and studs, a cap in the cartilage with a delicate chain to the earlobe. Appropriate. Aesthetic. Trowa barely registered it beyond a mild, slightly interesting fact.

The bartender found him attractive in return, if the repeated runs he made with his eyes over Trowa’s figure were any indication. Trowa didn’t know why; he was still bruised and now probably noticeably frazzled. Still, the bartender smiled, content to run his eyes over him as he waited for Trowa’s order. Trowa would have found it unnerving usually, but he didn’t tonight. There was too much else going on.

The bar was a nightmare, thick with smoke and alcohol and human heat. Trowa wanted to cough every time he breathed. The noise was even worse. Laughing, talking that bordered on screaming, blaring music. And through it all Trowa could still hear his heart pounding and the noises repeating in the back of his head.

God, how did people enjoy these places?

“In case you haven’t noticed,” the bartender said, getting his attention again with a calculated lean forward. His smile was strained now. “We’re a little busy.”           

Trowa looked up the bar. There were five people, included this bartender, manning it. Taking into account the number of tables he had seen coming in, the number of heads he managed to count, and the number of people on with side of him, Trowa calculated that each tender was responsible for the drinks of thirty patrons. At least.           

They were busy. Trowa slid into the empty barstool near him, putting his helmet on the floor and planting his foot on it.           

The bartender took it as a good sign. “So, your poison?”           

Trowa stared at the bottles lining the back of the bar, and then at the short, handwritten menu on the side. He didn’t understand a word of it, besides the prices. _You’re in over your head._ Trowa had never been much of a drinker. Alcohol was an imperative, and Trowa was far too paranoid to subject himself to mind altering and body affecting substances. Willing, anyway. The few times he did drink had been social gatherings, and he never picked himself. Duo would shove a popular but uninspiring beer in his hands, or Quatre would give him a rich wine or liquor.           

He flinched at the thought of the two, turning the jerk into a not-so-convincing shrug. He leaned forward and did a stupid thing—the most recent in a long stream of them over this weekend.           

“Surprise me.”

The bartender blinked once. “You sure about that?” Trowa frowned at him until he shrugged. “Famous last words, is all I’m saying. But don’t worry, I’ll fix you something nice.”           

Trowa sighed after the bartender turned away. He felt safe to do so, with the noise and the constant distraction of patrons shouting orders and sliding up and away from the bar. He leaned carefully onto the far, frowning at the way the bass shook it under his arms. He looked around as he waited, trying to keep his attention off the building headache and the noises he didn’t want to hear again. There was quite an assortment of people here. The tables nearest the bar had two set of businessman, a triad of giggling women, and half-a-dozen young men talking in low whispers. He found the businessmen particularly interesting, since one set was unmistakably miserable and the other clearly celebrating. Trowa wondered if they were rival companies, celebrating victory and licking wounds in the same bar. The likelihood was low, though.           

“Here we go,” the bartender said, setting a drink down next to Trowa’s elbow. Trowa glanced down at it. He didn’t know they made glasses that tall. “Pretty sure you’ll like it.”           

Trowa stared down at the glass. He couldn’t tell what color it was in the low lighting, other than dark. The thin layer of foam on top was only slightly lighter than the liquid underneath, and it was dissolving rapidly. Trowa picked up the glass and brought it to his nose for a cursory sniff. It was unnecessary; if something was off about it, he wouldn’t know. Frowning, Trowa squared his shoulders and knocked back a good fourth.           

It burned down his throat, and then down in his lungs as he tried to keep from coughing. He was sure he had swallowed acid, it burned so bad. To make matters worse, it left a vile aftertaste. Trowa glared at the glass, and then at the bartender who had left to serve another customer. It was unlikely he had done anything to the drink, since poisoning was just bad business practice, but Trowa couldn’t stop the paranoia. He might have slipped him something, or added something. Hell he could have mixed it wrong because there was no way in hell alcohol tasted this bad.           

Except it did. Trowa remembered it as the aftertaste started to fade. Heero had been away on a mission, Duo had just come home from one. And Trowa had been late at work trying to plot out a trafficking ring. Quatre had already gone to bed when they both stumbled through the door. Instead of going to bed himself, Duo had somehow convinced Trowa to sit on the couch with him and “toast the shitty day.” He had shoved a beer at Trowa and wouldn’t let him leave until he had finished it. Trowa had been too tired to argue. But when he drank the damn thing, Trowa had nearly spit out. It had burned. _Like an acid…_ Duo had found it hilarious and nearly squirted beer out his nose.           

Quatre’s wine had been almost the same. It had been at a holiday party Quate had had to organize. Trowa had gone as Quatre’s “date” because he couldn’t stand any of the other staffers working it and needed someone who wouldn’t be utterly infuriating. It had been a quiet, awkward affair that Trowa had endured by staying out of the way. Quatre would spend as much time with him as he could, slipping back to the wall Trowa had stationed himself at. One time, he brought Trowa a slender glass of rich, ruby-colored wine. The initial taste had been better than the beer’s, but the burn had still been there. Quatre had just smiled, told him it was an acquired taste and he didn’t have to finish it. Trowa.           

_Guess alcohol is alcohol. It always burns._ Trowa stared down at the drink. It might taste better after a second sip. Or a third.           

There wasn’t any difference until after the fifth.           

“Damn, you’ve had some kind of shit day, haven’t you,” the bartender asked when he came around again. Trowa stared at him over his glass. “People inhale drinks like that only when they’ve got shit they want to forget.” Trowa’s stare narrowed. The bartender, undeterred, leaned forward. “Something you want to talk about?” Trowa snorted over his drink. The bartender thankfully took the hint, stepping back and shrugging. “Alright, alright, I’ll back off. Anyone, the drugs should kick in in about half an hour, so I’ll see you then. We’ll go into the back and have some fun.”           

Trowa nearly spat whatever this drink was out, through nose and mouth. He glared over his hand at the bartender as he coughed and choked, fingers tightening around the glass. It probably wouldn’t kill him, but smashing it on the bastard’s head would hurt.           

“Okay, calm down, I was kidding I swear,” the bartender said, hands defensive in the air. “Admittedly, not a funny joke, but I promise there’s nothing in your drink. I do happen to like my job, and certainly enough not to drug people on it. Even handsome people. Besides,” he said, mouth splitting into what he obviously thought was a charming smile. “I can get any guy I want the old-fashioned way.”           

Trowa stared at him, unblinking, until the bartender sighed. “Note taken. Date rape jokes do not lead to phone numbers. I’ll fucking kill my roommate. Call if you need a refill.”           

Trowa drank silently once the bartender had left, savoring the last fourth of the glass. At least he called it savoring; it certainly sounded better than “heading off the low buzz building in the back of his head.” He watched the people around the bard shift and change. Businessmen. Young ladies. Young men. A couple of kids that couldn’t be much older than himself. And at least one that was younger. The drinking age was younger here, but Trowa didn’t think it was that low.           

If it bothered anyone, no one said anything. The bartender gave them a cursory look as they approached the bar before coming back to Trowa and his now empty glass.           

“Top you off?”           

“Sure,” Trowa muttered, sliding it towards him. The bartender smiled.           

“Step in the right direction.” He made the drink in front Trowa this time. “Maybe after this one, we’ll be on a name basis.”           

_ Don’t hold your breath. _ __

Trowa rest his chin on his fist with the fresh drink in front of him. A spike of pain shot through his cheek and neck. Sneering, he knocked back a fourth of his drink, suddenly bitterly thankful for the bar’s bad lighting. It hid, as much as it could, the bruises and the last of his split lip. Which meant that a nosy patron, or an even nosier bartender, wouldn’t be tempted to ask about them. Trowa sighed and took another drink, forcing himself to make it smaller. Eventually he was able to just nurse the drink. The burn was almost gone, leaving in its wake an almost deligious tang. Trowa closed his eyes.  _ Should ask him what this is, or at least what’s in it. Quatre and Duo would love it. _ __

Trowa’s throat tightened, almost as if a hand had tightened around it. Another hand had snuck into his chest, crushing his lungs and cutting off his breath even more. Trowa knocked back the rest of the drink before lowering his head. He pressed a hand over his eyes, squeezing his temples.

In the back of his head, over the chatter and the bottles clinking and the heavy bass, he heard the low voices. The gasps and the occasional, then rhythmic, creaks. Even an hour after, they were loud. Like he was standing on the other side of the door.           

Trowa downed the rest of his drink. The third refill came much quicker.           

Had it really only been an hour? It felt both longer and shorter. Five minutes and five days since he stumbled out of the house after driving home from the circus. Five minutes and five days since he peeled out and then onto the highway, trying not to think about anything apart from not killing himself on the highway. Five minutes and five days since, since.           

Trowa almost choked on the third. He didn’t push away the fourth drink when it showed up.           

He had stopped at the bar, the first bar he actually noticed while speeding, to stop himself from thinking. To keep them from getting back into his head, and somehow they had managed to do it. Trowa cradled his head after drinking half of his newest drink. Or at least he thought it was half. Maybe it was more because when he lifted his head it was full again. Trowa reached for it and somehow managed to drink it a bit more slowly.           

He had wanted not to think, and the “buzz” he had heard came with inebriation seemed—at the time—like the best way to get that immediate effect. And at least safer than landing himself in the coma in a hospital. Now he wasn’t getting it. Well, he was getting the buzz, a strange sort of feeling that started at the base of his head and moved outward, impossible to describe but curious enough to keep him indulging it. But Trowa wasn’t getting the “not thinking.” He wasn’t getting a barrier from the noises and the images he wanted to forget, wanted to bury, wanted to shove as deeply down as the rest of his bad memories.           

It wasn’t until Trowa started swaying, just a little he was sure, that the alcohol managed to smother it. But then he had other things to ignore.           

“Wow, okay, you’re done.” Trowa started at the voice. Sort of. He shifted back, slowly and with a hard sway on his shoulders, when a hand suddenly capped the top of Trowa’s almost empty glass. The fingers were oddly blurry. Trowa scowled at them when they pulled the glass away.           

“Hey,” he said, or rather muttered. Trowa’s tongue felt thick in his mouth.           

“Nope, you’re done.”           

“Give it back.” The bartender looked him up and down. Trowa tried to follow the movement and nearly slid off the stool. The bartender sighed.           

“Tell you what,” he said, keeping the glass out of Trowa’s reach. “Answer one question and I’ll give you back your drink and pay your tab.” That sounded good. Trowa nodded, at least he thought he nodded. The entire room seemed to shift up and down. The bartender smiled. “Awesome. I’ll even make it easy for you. How many fingers am I holding up?”    

Trowa snorted. _Of all the stu, stupid questions._ He stared hard at the hand the bartender held up. Three fingers. Easy. Definitely three fingers, or was it four? Trowa stared at the fingers, trying to focus. It would be so much easier if the hand would stop moving, stop spinning and slowly swaying. Just when he thought it was three fingers, they would spin into four, sway down to one or two, and then sway all the way up to six. _He’s cheating._            

Which meant that if Trowa subtracted at least two from the seven fingers now swinging in front of him, he would probably hit the right answer. Or at least close enough.

“F, Five,” Trowa said. The bartender looked at him and then looked at his fingers. Trowa’s mouth slid into a crooked smirk.  _ Got him. _ __

“Yeah, so you’re trashed.” Trowa blinked and watched the bartender turn and tip his drink over sideways. It took Trowa nearly ten seconds to realize he was dumping it in the sink. A soft growl crept out of his throat. Or Trowa thought it had been a growl. The bartender disagreed. “Don’t whine at me.” _I don’t whine._ “You’ll thank me in the morning when your hangover is bad and not torturous.”           

He rinsed and stacked the glass off to the side before drying his hand. He turned to Trowa and held out his hand. Palm up this time.           

“Keys.”           

_Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding._ Hand over the keys to his motorcycle? A motorcycle Duo wasn’t even allowed to look at on his particularly clumsy days? And to a prick with too many holes in his head. Trowa sneered at the spinning face and pushed himself back from the bar. Only the bartender grabbing his forearm kept him from hitting the floor. Trowa landed against the bar with a grunt.            

“Don’t,” the bartender asked, holding onto his arm. Trowa glared. “Just don’t, okay? I don’t want to start a scene but I will if I’ve got to.”           

“Get off.”           

“You can’t drive like this. You can’t. You’re not going to make it out the door. So just give me your keys before something happens. I promise your bike will be safe.”           

“Fuck you.” Trowa pulled on the hand holding him while feeling around for his helmet. The bartender sighed.           

“I really didn’t want to do this.”           

Trowa expected to be blinded-sided. He expected a pop to the face, either the nose or the temple, by the bastard. A part of him was hoping for it. The two of them would end up on the floor and, drunk or not, Trowa would kick his ass. He might get stepped on a few times, but he’d still manage to roll the bartender under him and beat his head into the floor. It would be therapeutic.

So when Trowa’s cheek suddenly met the cool bar with a gesture that, from the right person, could have been carrying, Trowa’s scattered thoughts ground to a complete stop.           

The bartender stroked his hair. “Thank god that worked, I’d be so fired for punching you,” he said. Trowa was frowning at the bar, and enjoying the light touch, too much to answer. “Alright, now just stay here while I—”           

Trowa heard a shout from down the bar. He flinched; now that his head was down, he realized he had a pounding headache. The bartender cursed.

“Seriously? Right now? I’m kind of dealing with something. Alright alright.” He glanced down at Trowa. “Okay, just, just stay here. Right here. Don’t move, I’ll be right back. And then I’ll get you a cab to get you home. Just stay.” Trowa sneered up at him as the bartender walked away. He pressed his hands against the bar and pushed. Or he tried to. His body, and more specifically his head, were suddenly far too heavy.           

It wasn’t a problem until Trowa realized the music, with its heavy bass, sent vibrations through the bar. Vibrations that made his already awful headache border on blinding. Trowa managed to work his arms under his head. They weren’t much of a cushing but it was better than nothing. Trowa stared across the bar, watching condensation drip from nearby glasses and puddle, and then watching the puddles ripple as someone bumped the bar. Soon enough, even that made his head hurt. Trowa closed his eyes tightly and turned his head into his arms.           

“Well. This is a pleasant surprise,” someone said behind him, loud enough for Trowa to hear over the music and his head. A hand landed on Trowa’s shoulder. He twitched at the sudden contact, only mildly concerned that he didn’t notice someone coming up behind him through the haze draped over him. Trowa shrugged the weight off and shift, bring an arm up to cover his head.           

The hand returned, this time with a friend. They gripped his shoulders none-too-gently and pulled. Trowa swayed as he went upright, the room tilting hard to the side. Trowa groaned, gripping the bar to keep himself from falling. He swatted at the hands. One left, only to reappear on Trowa’s stomach as he held Trowa up on his stool.           

“How many have you had,” the voice asked.           

Trowa shrugged and muttered what he thought was, “a few.”           

“A few. A few what,” the voice asked. Trowa frowned. He recognized the voice. He recognized the hands. He knew he did, but he couldn’t put a name to the low bass and the big palms surrounding him. Not that it mattered. The man was a friend. He had to be. Trowa wasn’t drunk enough—and now he would admit he was drunk. Inebriation achieved—to miss the difference between friend and enemy. The hair on his neck wasn’t rising. He wasn’t tensing or looking for pressure points and weakness to exploit. He wasn’t looking for an out. So obviously, the man behind him was a friend.           

Trowa just wished he recognized him. And that he would stop talking. Talking made his head hurt.           

He must have said that outloud because the man behind him chuckled. “Alright,” he said, “let’s just get you out of here, then.” The hands shifted, gripping Trowa under the biceps. Trowa’s legs tangled as he was eased up off the stool. Trowa stumbled. “Easy now.”           

“Hey, hey! Hands off!” Trowa’s head snapped up, When he could see straight, he watched with mild interest as the bartender slid to a stop in front of them. He looked the man behind Trowa up and down, swallowing noticeably but lifting his chin. For someone so nervous, his voice was surprisingly steady. “You need to back away.”           

“Do I really,” the man behind Trowa asked. Trowa hissed as the grip on his arms tightened. It kept him off the floor, but it hurt and the protective/possessive pressure was unnerving. Trowa pulled at it.           

“Look, he’s drunk. He’s not thinking clearly, so just leave him alone. Find someone else. I’m calling him a cab.”           

“Not necessary,” the man behind him growled. The bartender’s face turned an obvious, interesting shade of red, noticeable even in the bad light.

“You think I was born yesterday,” he snapped. “I know you, and I’m not letting him out of here with anyone but a cab driver.”           

“Actually, we’re already familiar. So a cab isn’t necessary. I’ll take him home.”           

Now fingernails were digging in. Hard. Trowa squirmed and pushed at them.

“Familiar, huh,” the bartender asked with a bitter smirk. “Doesn’t seem like he’s all that happy with that familiarity.”           

The man chuckled. “He gets like this when he’s drunk,” he said, fingers letting go of one arm to ghost up Trowa’s neck and into his hair. Trowa turned his head and tried to bite the hand now petting his head like he was some kind of dog. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. I’ll call his roommates on the way so they won't worry.”           

_Fuck, it’s Zechs._ Of course, had to be Zechs. The voice was a little deeper than usual, and maybe accented a little differently, but obviously the music and his headache was messing with his ears. Zechs had recently (since the operation prep, actually) develop an irritating habit of messing with Trowa’s hair whenever he passed his desk. He’d fluff it up one and then run his hand back along Trowa’s head to smooth it down.           

Zechs. It had to be Zechs. No one, apart from Catherine and occasionally Duo, touched his hair. And hadn’t Wufei mentioned to him recently that Zechs still bar-hopped on occasion? That it made him a little concerned, a little nervous? Trowa must have picked a bar Zechs had decided to hit.           

By the time he had come to the realization, Zechs and the bartender had been arguing enough to draw attention to themselves. Another minute or two, there might be blows.           

“I’m not letting you,” the bartender said.

“It’s not up to you,” Zechs replied, voice tight enough to tell Trowa that the first punch would be his.           

Which would have been a better reaction than Trowa would have gotten from anyone else. God forbid Quatre or Duo, or worse Wufei or Heero, found him slipping off a stool in a bar. Quatre would be so palpable disappointed in him that Trowa would want to fall off the stool and through the floor. Duo wouldn’t be disappointed. He’d be horribly amused and would probably slide into the stool beside him.           

Wufei and Heero wouldn’t say anything, and they wouldn’t waste words with the bartender. They would just slam his head against the bar if he argued and then drag Trowa out. Or carry his unconscious body out like a carpet.           

Zechs was the best choice. Argumentative but more likely not to embarrass him or beat him senseless.           

“I’m not going to ask again. Hands off or I call the manager to throw you out.”           

“Oh please, call him. I’ll be happy to tell him how abusive you’ve been to a long-time patron.”           

“And I’ll be happy to file a harassment report.”

Trowa scowled, swaying in Zechs’ hand. He was tired of being fought over like a child that couldn’t take care of himself, and he was especially tired of it not going anywhere. Normally, Zechs won any argument he got in with a few well-placed words. He was off his game tonight. Way off. And the ensuing fight was making his head pound hard enough to black out his vision.

If Zechs wasn’t going to get him out of there, Trowa would.           

“Enough,” Trowa managed. His tongue was half-stuck to the roof of his mouth but he managed to make himself loud enough and stubborn enough to get the bartender’s attention. “Shut up and let’s go.”           

Trowa ignored the bartender’s open-mouth shock and the way Zechs’ hands loosened in surprise. He ducked down to find his helmet. Zechs caught him around the waist as Trowa nearly tumbled forward. He let Trowa flounder in his hands as Trowa hunted for his helmet, eventually managing to hook his fingers around it.           

“Are, are you sure,” the bartender asked when Trowa straightened with Zechs’ help. He glared at Zechs over Trowa’s shoulder. “I can get a cab here in five minutes.”

“He’s fine,” Zechs insisted, turning Trowa from the bar. “Put his tab on mine and get back to your customers before I have you fired.”           

Trowa wasn’t aware that walking could be so difficult. The ache in his ankle was back, the dull pain covered by the alcohol until that moment. With the headache and the body aches and now the dizziness, Trowa was surprised he didn’t fall face-first into the floor. If Zechs wasn’t there, he would have. Zechs steered him to the door, pushing and pulling him carefully when he swayed off balance. A couple times, after some impressive stumbles, he swore he heard Zechs chuckle. Trowa yanked himself out of his grip every time he thought he heard it, only to stumble again.           

“Just let me walk you out,” Zechs suggested, arm tight around Trowa’s shoulders. Trowa pulled on the grip. He managed to slip it, took to semi-steady steps, and nearly hit the floor when someone bumped into him. He hissed as Zechs caught him under the arm, yanking his still aching chest. Over his panting, he heard Zechs swear at the stranger. At least, he thought it was swearing; he had never heard those words before. He shouldn’t be surprised though. Zechs had an impression education, unlike most of them, and spoke a number of languages.           

Zechs guided Trowa outside, nearly pushing him out the bar’s front door. The cold air hit Trowa like a sledge hammer, momentarily clearing his head before making everything that much worse. The streetlamps exploded in his eyes, and without the music blaring Trowa realized how loud the bar had been. The world was muffled, with a low disturbing ringing humming just beneath his thudding pulse. Trowa shook his head hard. Zechs caught him when he almost fell.           

“Because that wasn’t going to happen,” Zechs sighed. Trowa frowned. It was strange but even without the music, Zechs sounded…different. _But I can barely hear myself breathing._ “Let’s try something else.”           

Suddenly the ground dropped out from under him. It took Trowa a minute to recognize the hardness under his back and knees as arms, and the sharp keening noise as his own gasp. Zechs chuckled but wouldn’t put him down.           

The walk to Zechs’ car was quicker but much, much worse. The constant rocking that came with Zechs’ heavy, hurried steps tipped Trowa’s stomach into his throat. The hard streaks of light as the streetlamps moved past didn’t help either. Trowa shut his eyes to try and keep a grip on himself and his stomach. The darkness made the rocking worse. By the time they reached the car, Trowa had his cold-sweat chilled knuckles pressed against his mouth.           

“If I sit you down for a second,” Zechs said, entirely unaware of how fast the bile was rising, “do you think you can stay up?” Trowa managed a shaky nod, not trusting himself to open his mouth. Zechs set him down on the trunk of his car. Trowa felt the hard metal edge pressed into the back of his knees. Zechs closed his fingers over it, squeezing once before moving away.

Trowa dug his fingers into the metal as he started to sway. He kept his head down, hoping the pressure against his throat would keep the vomit down. It didn’t. Trowa doubled over, shivering. He was going to be sick. He was going to fall over and be sick, or be sick and then fall over. Either way, it was going to be awful.           

Trowa gasped as he was suddenly yanked off the trunk. “I don’t care if you’re drunk,” Zechs growled, turning Trowa so fast in his arms that the tenuous hold Trowa had on his stomach broke. “Don’t you fucking dare throw up on my car.”           

He barely heard him. Bent over Zechs arm, hair held back with a hard hand, Trowa vomited onto the pavement. Tears pricked his eyes as his stomach emptied itself of alcohol and Catherine’s dinner.           

Zechs ran a hand along his side. “Easy now,” he said softly. “Don’t tense like that. Just let it out.”           

Eventually, Trowa stop, the muscles in his stomach contracting more slowly as he coughed. His entire body trembled. Trowa wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, groaning when Zechs pulled him up carefully. He swayed back into Zechs’ chest.           

“So that’s how I can get you to cooperate,” he murmured. Trowa didn’t have time to ask him what he meant. Zechs was already guiding him to the passenger door, and the exhaustion was already overwhelming him. Zechs practically had to drag him, and when Trowa cracked his head on the roof of the car trying to get in by himself, he had to ease Trowa down into the seat.           

“If you didn’t have a headache before, you do now,” Zechs sighed. Trowa just grit his teeth as he held his head.           

Zechs eased him back into the passenger seat, pushing his head back gently. Trowa sighed. The slight recline relieved so much pressure from his still rolling stomach. Trowa heard a soft click after something tight went over his hips. He opened his eyes a little bit and watched Zechs adjust the seatbelt over him.           

With the light and the nausea and the headache and the blacking vision, Trowa could have sworn that… but no. That was impossible. He would never see him again. Not awake anyway. In his dreams, yes, he’d see that face and hear that voice, but he would never actually see the man again. Trowa pushed the silly thought away.           

He smiled down at Trowa. At least it was probably a smile. It might have been a leer. But Trowa knew that Zechs wouldn’t leer at him, and he already decided that no, it couldn’t be him. It was a smile. Trowa shut his eyes.           

A hand landed lightly on his cheek. “Get some sleep. You’re going to need it.           

Trowa certainly did. He was too drunk and too hurt. He needed sleep. He needed the dark and the quiet and the break to sort out his spinning head. He needed the time to remember that Zechs probably never had that dark of a tan. The fact should have filled him with dread.

Right now, though, it didn’t.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nizar and Trowa have very bad days.

 

Allah was a vindictive bastard.

Which would certainly explain most of Nizar’s situation. His adherence to Islam didn’t matter to Allah. He could pay homage to Mecca with perfect fervor, live by the empty rules of imams, and dedicate his life to the tutelage and salvation offered in the Koran, and Allah would still allow  _ this _ . Clearly, he enjoyed tormenting Nizar. Clearly this was a punishment for something, some sin long forgotten or committed unaware. Wouldn’t beheading be better? Or straight torture? Nizar would even welcome castration if it meant—

“Nizar? You’re still awake? The sun isn’t even up. Your arthritis isn’t acting up again, is it?”

\--If it meant that he didn’t have to watch the crown prince walk through the door with a corpse.

Nizar bowed stiffly. “Morning isn’t so far off, my lord,” he said after breathing deeply through his nose and somehow unclenching his jaw. “When the time his lordship assured me he would turn by had passed—”  _ Which was three hours ago.  _ “And he still did no appear, I was loathed to sleep. At least not until he had either returned or news of his sudden, unwelcome and undeserved injury or death arrived.”

At least Fahd hadn’t had his brains splattered on the concrete while dry humping some whore. The media would have had a field day.

“Nizar,” Fahd said. Nizar glanced up, smiling inwardly at the look of annoyance on Fahd’s face. It was intensely satisfying. “How long have you served my family.”

“Several decades, my lord.”

“Indeed,” he said. Juggling the body in his arms as gently as he could, Fahd shrugged out of his winter coat and hung it up. Nizar ground his teeth as the corpse let out a mumbled complaint. “And how long have you served me personally?

“Twenty years.”  _ Tonight the longest of my life. I almost miss your father. _ __

“So. Twenty years. Of loyal service. Twenty years as my protector, my guide, my confidant—”

“In private company,” Nizar reminded.

“Yes, private company but that’s not the point. The point, Nizar, is that it’s been twenty years since you started serving and guiding me. Don’t you think its time to drop the honorifics?”

Nizar took it as a sign that the time for humility was over. Straightening, he fixed Fahd with a narrow, dark stare. One that didn’t bother Fahd in the least. Nizar’s jaw tightened. It had taken twenty years, but Fahd had finally built up an immunity to his looks; at any other time, he might have been proud.  _ Ghaliya, rest your soul, he’s still an audacious child. We have more important things to do. _ __

“And what does my prince expect? For me to speak plainly in his presence, to chastise him for his childish mistakes? Consider him the immature brat that he is? This is the same man who will, eventually, be king and who could, with a word, have any body part removed for insolence.” Nizar snorted and shook his head. “I happen to like my limbs exactly where they are. And if that means I have to addres a toddler in a manner he is entirely undeserving of, then so be it.”

Nizar realized too late he had stumbled, once again, into one of Fahd’s clever traps.

“Do age, wisdom, and experience count for nothing,” Fahd asked after a moment of carefully cultivated silence. His delicate tone almost surprised Nizar. “Must they always pale beneath rank?” Fahd’s dark eyes gleamed almost wetly, and he looked at Nizar with sweet, childish longing and admiration. Nizar sighed. “Do you know how tightly that word constricts me, Nizar? How it chokes me some days still? Is it so wrong of me to occasionally long for the the days of simple master and pupil? The days when you were my superior in both age and wisdom? You were my teacher and guide from almost before I could stand. Is it wrong of me to wish for that time again?”

He certainly did have the feigned adoration down. Those looks would be the death of him.

“You are a snake,” Nizar said, arms crossing over his chest, “and it will get you into trouble someday, Fahd.”

The innocent look melted. Fahd gave him a wide, white grin. “If such a thing comes to pass, we’ll have you to blame. You taught me a great many things.”

“And damn you for being so diligent.”

Fahd smiled as he sidled past Nizar with full arms. “So you’ve said,” he chuckled.

Nizar followed him after checking the guards positioned outside the penthouse door. Their backs weren’t against the wall this time. They stood, straight and tall, hands tucked behind their backs. They looked up and down the hall with careful movements of the eyes. Nizar nodded to himself before closing the door, hard. From the sound of it, only one of them jumped. He tsked and gathered up a stack of files from the side table. He would have to remind them, again, of protocol. It didn’t matter if they were in a crowded newsroom or the silent hall of the skyrise apartment. There were expectations they needed to meet. An image they had to maintain. The media was already jumping at the bit to undermine, and then decimate, their work.

It was no secret that Nizar had little love for “the West,” and none at all for its media. He was careful to keep his disdain restrained until he was in private company, but occasionally it leaked out. Nizar hated everything, and especially everything in Sanq. The food, the culture, the clothes, the linguistics. It all just irritated him.

Which meant that Fahd found it immensely charming. His favorite pastime sometimes was watching Nizar’s mouth tighten as he praised whatever it was that Nizar had just damned.

Nizar would, however, give them credit on how they framed a view.

The penthouse apartment had cost them a small fortune, even for an heir apparent. The uppermost rooms of one of the more dignified apartment skyrises would be barely worth the expense if not for the breathtaking view. The fourth wall of the sprawling living room was made almost entirely of glass. It opened out onto a balcony that would be pleasant when it wasn’t winter and, more importantly, the impressive skyline. The nightlights gave Sanq, even at this early hour, an almost watery look. A still pond’s reflection of the stars.

For the moment, the sky was still dark, but at the seam of the horizon, Nizar could see the pale strip of pearl that signaled oncoming dawn. He would love to enjoy the slow transformation of the city at dawn; unfortunately, there were things to attend to.            
Like the corpse.

Nizar sneered as Fahd carried the corpse to one of the leather couches that made up most of the room’s furniture. He settled the corpse carefully, taking his dear sweet time to lay its head out on a throw pillow. Fahd was thankfully considerate when it came to the thing’s boots, shoving them off before the mud got on the leather. Of course, now there was mud on the floor but Nizar wasn’t all that fond of the carpet.

“Seeing as you aren’t going to retire, shall we go over today’s agenda,” Nizar asked.

Fahd didn’t so much as glance back at him. “Please do.”

Nizar held back a snort. Balancing the folder in one hand, Nizar flipped to the first page and scanned the itinerary, again. “Your schedule is very full.”

“When isn’t it?”

“You have a meeting with the defense council at seven. We will have to keep the question to a minimum because there is a press conference at eight-thirty back in the city.”         
     
“And we don’t need you trying to talk us out of a traffic ticket again,” Fahd said, stroking the corpse’s hair back. Nizar did snort this time; he could have gotten them out of it if Fahd hadn’t started chuckling.  
  
“We’ll have to treat the press conference carefully. The media is still concerned about your ‘affiliations’.”

“Of course they are. I’ll just have to assuage their fears,” he said. Fahd turned and smiled, a soft and oddly disarming smile. His media smile. “How should I go about it? Amused, or offended?”

“Whatever you decide will be effective, I’m sure,” Nizar answered with a shrug. Frowning, Fahd turned away. He gestured for him to continue. “After the press conference, you have a meeting with Peacecraft—”

“Again? Doesn’t she have someone else to bother?”

“Her organization is prominent and influential. It’s—”

“—‘important to maintain a positive relationship.’ I know, I know,” he sighed. “Which old bastard am I suffering through today?”

Nizar searched through his added notation. He somehow managed to keep the smirk out of his voice. “A Quatre Raberba Winner,” he said mildly.

Fahd’s reaction was anything but mild. He lept up and snatched the paper from Nizar’s hands. His eyes ran rapidly over the name written in Nizar’s occasionally sloppy handwriting several times, lips pursed. There could be no mistaking it; the Winners were still a notable family, with tight control on their name and their connections. The likelihood that there was another young man with surname Winner, with the same personal name and physical description, was null.

“Sandrock,” Fahd muttered. “He must be nineteen now.”

“Two months nineteen.”

Fahd frowned. He had been involved in international politics for only a few years before the war between the Earth and the colonies full broke out. Their country had remained neutral, although Nizar and a handful of others had hacked every system on every side they could. Just to be careful. Fahd, cut off from it as he was, had become obsessed with the war, particularly the Gundams. Nizar had suspected it was from envy and had hoped it would had with time. It hadn’t.

“Well,” Fahd said, handing the paper back with as close to his usual attitude as he could manage. “This will be at least interesting.”

“Very.”

“What else,” he asked, returning to the couch.

Conference calls, speaking engagements, and appointments. Dinner dates and lunches. Honestly, Fahd wasn’t the only one who missed the “old days” when Nizar was just a guard and tutor. The political world was boring, moreso because they had mastered its rules too quickly. Every day was something of a grind now. At least this week they had several base visits. That was always enjoyable: seeing the fruits of their tireless labor. The war was going to be so much more successful than they projected, at the rate they were going.

“Oh,” Nizar said as he neared the end of the itinerary. “His majesty’s physicians requested a call this afternoon.”

The corpse let out a soft cry as Fahd twisted his hair. It brought a thin hand up to scratch at Fahd’s arm, although it didn’t actually wake.  _ Damn. I was hoping it was finally fully dead.  _ The light scratches got Fahd’s attention. He hastily stroked the thing’s hair down before glaring over his shoulders.

“What do they want now?”

“His majesty suffered another stroke. They’ve stabilized him but are not hopeful. They fear he won’t make it long after the new year and implore you to return immediately.”

If Nizar didn’t see if every time the comatose king took a turn for the worse, the sheer glee on Fahd’s face would have been disturbing. He held back a sigh and started trying to come up with another viable excuse to forgive Fahd’s continued absence from the man’s bedside.

“Is that all,” Fahd said lightly. “Well, I’ll certainly try but our schedule is so very busy. I’m afraid I might not be able to see the man before he passes.”

“His doctors will understand.”

“Of course they will. I’m upholding the old bastard’s ideals, aren’t I? Country, honor, and strength.”

_ You shouldn’t have gone to such lengths to ensure your youngest’s succession. You might actually be conscious now, Saif. _ __

“That’s all for today’s schedule,” Nizar said with a definitive snap of the folder.

“Wonderful. And there’s still,” Fahd glanced at the digital clock sitting on the side table near the liquor cabinet, “Half an hour before I need to get ready. Plenty of time to get things settled.”

“Things” obviously being the half-dead waif currently turning into Fahd’s hand as he stroked his cheek.

Nizar tossed the folder on the coffee table. Enough. He knew he wasn’t the most patient man, but damn it, hadn’t he been understanding about Fahd’s needs? He ignored the nightly escapades, apart from reminding him that caution was their friend. The media, or worse the authorities, would love to catch him at something illicit and potentially scandalous.

Nizar understood. Fahd was twenty-eight, with a libido to match. Of course there were needs and urges. Nizar didn’t even care about his preferences. He was, all and all, open and fair about Fahd’s sexual appetite.

But bringing one of them home was a step too far. It was rude and a blatant abuse of Nizar’s patience at best, and sheer stupidity at worst. Who knew where this drunk prostitute had come from, or who he could be working for? _He didn’t listen to a word I said about these vermin and the holes they have access to.  
_ __  
“Fahd, I need to speak plainly—”    
           
“We’ve had this conversation.”

“—and I want amnesty for it.” That drew his attention. Fahd eyed him curiously for a moment, hand in the thing’s hair.

“Very well,” he said after a moment. “I admit I’m curious.” Fahd shifted, resting his elbow on the edge of the couch and his chin on his fist. “What’s on your mind?”

“Are you insane or just stupid,” Nizar demanded, ignoring how Fahd’s eyes widened and his head tilted. “Do you have any idea the danger that puts us in?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“That!”

Fahd followed Nizar’s violent point, tilting his head at the thing shifty. “What about him?”

Nizar kept himself from vaulting the coffee table and strangling Fahd by remind himself that yes, he did enjoy being alive.

“Ignoring, for the moment, the diseases it’s probably carrying and passing onto you.” Fahd rolled his eyes. “Did you forget the position prostitutes have here?”

“Oh, not this again.”

“Yes this again because you apparently can’t be bothered to remember. Or are simply incapable of it. They occupy all the best and worst nooks and crannies and therefore have the best opportunities for gathering and passing valuable information.”

“We’ve had this lecture before,” Fahd muttered.

“They’re on the payroll of nearly every media outlet and far too many government officials. Everyone knows, if you want the real dirt on someone, especially a new politician, you talk to whores.”

“Are you finished?”

“No,” he snapped, fist clench. “You’ve introduced a liability to our plans. Your plans. Forget the fact that this is exactly the wrong image you want to cultivate. You brought it here. Until you plan on killing him and burning the remains, there’s nothing stopping him from going to the police.”

“He’s not going to the police.

Nizar snorted. “Then he’s either stupid or mute or you’re planning a murder, in which case I hope no one is going to miss him.”

“He’s not mute,” Fahd said, smiling at the unconscious body. “Although he likes to pretend to be.

“The whore’ll go to the media for a quick buck.

“Enough with the ‘whore.’ He’s not a prostitute.”

If he expected the information to make Nizar feel better, Fahd was sorely mistaken. If it wasn’t a prostitute, then what was it? Just some drunk at a bar. Nizar looked over at the unconscious thing. Unconscious boy, he’d admit. He couldn’t be all that much older than eighteen. Early twenties at best. University student probably. He probably had parents—homophobic, xenophobic, upper-class parents that would scream assault as loudly and to as many news anchors and reporters as possible.

Fahd frowned. “I don’t know what you’re imagining, but stop it.”

“You’ve dug a fine fucking grave,” Nizar muttered.

“You have an overactive imagination.”

“And you don’t have one at all,” Nizar yelled. The drunk boy groaned; Fahd actually jumped. “Can you not see past this exact second in time and realize that everything you do has consequences? Some of them things you don’t want? Everyone is watching you. They’re waiting for you to fuck up, to expose yourself, so they can get at you. Ridicule you. Kill you. Don’t you understand? Every time you leave this place, every time you get in the car, every time you piss, there is a gun on you. People want to kill you, Fahd, and decimate you while they’re at it. And you’re bringing home drunk prostitutes!”

By now, Nizar’s knees were complaining. The cold was bad for them, and tensing up as he had made the ache even worse. He turned and sank into the nearest armchair. The scolding had been very therapeutic, like a weight slipping off his chest. Now, though, he needed a drink. Badly. Nizar ran a hand over his face.

Fahd stood suddenly. Nizar watched him through his fingers as Fahd walked to the liquor cabinet. He poured a large glass of scotch and brought it over to Nizar. He held it over Nizar’s head, a small smile on his lips.

“You’ve been holding that in for a while,” Fahd said simply. Nizar just sighed and took the glass.

“You have no idea.” The alcohol was exquisite.

“Now, while I was aware about your feelings regarding my, my antics,” Fahd said, sitting himself on the arm of the chair. He didn’t look at all repentant, but he at least sounded like he was considering it. “I admit, I wasn’t aware of the stress I was putting on you. I apologize, but in my defense, I’m actually very aware of how many people want to kill me. And I’m particular about my outings. Your concern is very touching, though, and it pains me to know I’ve caused you so much stress.”

Nizar snorted, not believing a word of it but too exhausted to argue with me. He emptied the glass with a hard swig, but Fahd promptly refilled it.

“I wish you would at least leave your partners to me,” Nizar sighed. “Then I could make sure they’re clean and if necessary,” he glared at the couch, “expendable.”

“And let you take all my fun?”        

“I can find you someone just as enjoyable.”

“No,” Fahd said, looking at the couch with an oddly knowing smile, “I’m sure you’d never find anything like him.”

The sun was rising in earnest, turning the city to a muted gray, by the time Nizar finished his fourth drink. He was leaning back in the chair, enjoying the warmth of the alcohol and Fahd’s quietly presence as he read. He had picked up the file between drinks two and three, balancing it against his crossed knee. He paused his reading only to refill Nizar’s glass. Just as Nizar finished the fourth glass, letting it dangle from his fingers as he watched the slow spreading daylight out the window, Fahd snapped the file shut.

“Time to start the day, I think,” he announced.

Nizar glanced at the clock and nodded. If they wanted to be on time, they needed to get ready. He put the glass on the coffee table and started to push himself out of the chair. His knees still ached.

“No, no, no,” Fahd said, setting a hand on his shoulder and pushing Nizar back into the armchair. Nizar scowled. “Relax.”

Relax? “What are you doing?”

“Making amends. I’ve caused another sleepless night and aggravated your arthritis.”

“So?”

“So? So I’m going to make today easier for you. I’ll escort myself to my appointments and engagements.”

Nizar had to be drunk. “You’re going to what?”

Fahd tucked the folder under his arm. “Escort myself,” he said, and not nearly as slowly as he could. It was almost as if he was trying to behave. “Consider today a holiday. You hate this bureaucratic nonsense just as much as I do, and I’ve been horribly inconsiderate. You deserve a break. I’ll survive without you.”

Nizar tracked Fahd’s movements carefully. He was up to something, Nizar was sure of it. Fahd never went alone. Nizar was always with him.  _ Always _ . The results otherwise tended to be disastrous. For all his bravado, Fahd had insecurities and nervous habits, like anyone else, but Nizar was the best one to understand and control them. The last time Nizar hadn’t been there, there had been incidents. Memorable incidents, that had delayed several important developments. Thankfully, most everyone had understood Fahd was upset about his old mentor going through intensive surgery.

He wanted to go alone. Today?           

“I don’t—” he started. Fahd cut him off.

“I insist. I realize now that I’ve been exceedingly childish. Stupid and inconsiderate. I could have ruin everything. You’re right, Nizar. I haven’t been looking ahead. Someday, you won’t be here. You’ll have to leave me eventually, and I must prepare to carry on without you. I don’t think I would be able to replace you, so I’ll have to learn how to do your job for the day when you can no longer do it yourself.” Fahd smiled, holding the folder in front of him. “Today I begin to see and look ahead. Take responsibility for my actions. Whatever happens today, good or ill, is my doing.”

Nizar sat back, unable to stop himself from feeling at least a little impressed, a little awed, by this sudden burst of maturity. Fahd busied himself with the prep work, asking where the usual paperwork was and requesting a few specific directions. And he didn’t look at the couch once. Nizar answered each question gladly, finally rising from the chair to see Fahd off at the door.

It was progress. Immense and sudden and still slightly suspicious progress, but progress. Perhaps Fahd would even let him toss out the drunk. Or at least understand why Nizar did it while he was out.

“Oh,” Fahd said as he pulled on his coat. “There is one thing I’d like you to do today. I shouldn’t ask any favors of you, and I’ll understand if you refuse, but I would appreciate it.”

“I’m happy to assist,” Nizar said.

“Wonderful,” Fahd said, smiling. There was an edge to it. “If you could just look after him for the day. He drank quite a bit, and then cracked his head on the car, so I’m sure he’ll sleep for a while. But if he gets anxious or difficult, just leave him in my bedroom for me to deal with later. I shouldn’t be much later than five, that’s when we normally finish, isn’t it? Thank you Nizar, I  _ do _ appreciate it.”

Fahd swept up the keys, tucked the folders under his arm, and was out the door long before Nizar could get his mouth off the floor. When it finally sank in—just how well Fahd had tricked him—Nizar kicked the wall. He only stopped when his foot hurt and the crack in the wall was just on the right side of “difficult to fix.”

“Damn him!”

Nizar stomped back to the living room. He grabbed the bottle of scotch from the cabinet. The liquor burned down his throat. When he slammed the bottle back down, the boy on the couch whined quietly. Nizar watched him, sneering.

It would be so easy to walk over, hold a cushion over his face, and smother him. Or open the glass balcony doors and heave him over the side. There were plenty of knives in the kitchen. Too many; no one would notice if one went missing in the drunk boy’s chest. And there was the gun strapped to his side. The penthouse soundproofing was fantastic.

It would be so easy to kill him, cover it up, and be done with it.

Except Fahd wouldn’t let him out of simple spite.

Nizar sat down with the bottle and watched the boy sleep. He would admit, after knocking the bottle back a few times, that there was something attractive about the boy. His face was all angular lines and corners, but still maintained a sort of softness to it. The auburn hair curled delicately against high cheekbone, fluttering up a little with each breath. His lips were slender for a boy’s and oddly pink. They were parted some, just enough for a peak of enamel.

There were problems, of course, Nizar remind himself with a hard shake of his head. The boy was heavily bruised, purple and blue splotches marring his cheek and neck. His lower lip was split. Healing nicely, but split.  _ He’s too thin. Look at the cut of that jaw. He probably hasn’t eaten right in months. Or his anorexic. Or addicted to something. _ __

His clothes certainly looked like an addict’s. Or a runaway’s. There was mud all over his cheeks and sweater. They reeked of drink and, at the very best, cigarettes.  _ Great. What alley did he pick this one up in? _ __

“A holiday,” he spat. Nizar would rather be in the stupid meetings.

Well, if he was going to baby-sit, the boy would at least be clean. Nizar set the bottle back on the liquor cabinet and dug out his phone. Leaning against the wall, he waited for the other side to pick up. He could easily walk to the front door, but they needed to be kept on their toes. The line rang four times before connecting.  _ Passable. _ __

“Sir?”

“Living room.”

There was a silent beat. “Now,” Hamid asked, the confusion clearly present. Somehow they hadn’t connected Fahd leaving on his own with Nizar remaining in the penthouse today.           

It irritated him. “Of course, now. You have ten seconds.”

They were excellent guards usually, but hen motivated, the boys exceeding expectations. Nothing quite worked like a nicely underlaid threat. They were standing before him in perfect attention in seven seconds, if that. Well not exactly perfect attention. Their brows were still pinched in mild confusion. He couldn’t tell if it was because Nizar was here or because he spoke to them in English. Nizar insisted they communicate effectively in a number of language, including English. Their native tongue needed to be used sparingly, even here.

He nodded once to Hamid, scarred and stern and promising, and Raif, who wore his confusion a little to openly. Then Nizar gestured at the couch.

“Bring him.”

The walk to the bathroom was only problematic because the boy surprised them with his weight. He looked scrawny but there was quite a bit of muscle lurking under those muddy clothes. Hamid and Raif shuffled with him for a moment before draping an arm over each of their shoulders and dragging him. Nothing was knocked over, and he left no mud tracks.

Nizar opened the bathroom door, annoyingly out of place since it slid, and flicked on the lights. The space was almost too large for the penthouse, but it was done tastefully in black, off-white, glass and stainless steel. Hamid and Raif dropped their load on the off-white rug in from of the glass shower stall.

“Strip him,” Nizar ordered before going to the shower and starting the water. He could almost feel them hesitating behind him. “Now,” he barked over his shoulder. They pounced on the boy. Letting the water warm, Nizar crossed to the black marble counter.             
He looked like hell. Dark bags under his eyes and more wrinkles than he remembered. The scar spanning the length of his face had finally faded after nearly twenty years, and almost looked like just an oddly connected series of wrinkles. He ran hand over his head. Nizar used to have to shave his head every few weeks to control his weed-like black hair. Now, he could go for months. When it did need shaving, the hair was white and gray. And of course, there were the things he couldn’t see. Like the arthritis. He was showing his age. It was a shame.

Nizar still had his build, though, and an award-winning shot. There weren’t many people in their sixties who could boast that.

“Sir,” Hamid called. Nizar closed his eyes. “You might want to look at this.”

The scowl he had been planning on laying on them stalled once Nizar turned around and saw the boy. Nizar crossed to the group and crouched down down with them, head tilting. Hamid and Raif had striped him to the waist. The two of them had probably never seen a binder like this before, or at least not on the chest. So they didn’t know what to expect. Nizar picked the item up from the floor. It barely gave an inch when he pulled it. Nizar dropped it onto the boy’s sweater. With a frown, Nizar looked from the chest to the face and back again, now noticing the slight bruising along the ribs.

Straddling its legs, Nizar undid the jeans with surprisingly steady hands. He yanked them down to the knees, and then paused. After hearing his heart for a moment, Nizar spread the thighs and slid a hand between them.

“Finish stripping him,” he ordered finally, rising. “Get him in the shower.”            

The search had roused him—her?—it?—enough to start struggling. Nizar didn’t pay attention. As long as Hamid held down his—her—its?—hands, they would be fine. Nizar focused on the faucet as he washed his hands.

It had an adam’s apple and what look like a penis. That made it a boy. It had breasts and a vagina. That made it a girl. What the hell had both?

Nizar knew about transgender, had known one or two. But he eliminated that immediately. It had both sets of genitalia, coexisting, maybe not functioning together, but coexisting. They were smaller than he’d expected. Almost pre-pubescent. At least the penis was. At his age, it should have been more developed, and with dropped testes. He wasn’t sure about the vagina. The breasts were certainly smaller than he expected.

He glanced over his shoulder. Now it was akway and kicking the best the hangover would it. The breasts bounced, despite their small size, with the thrashing, and it flashed Nizar with every kick. Water had soaked the bottom of his coat before Nizar realized he had leaned too close to the sink. He yanked it out and shut off the water with a curse.

Hamid and Raif had wrestled it into the shower by the time Nizar knelt by the discarded clothes and found wallet and keys. When it hit the water, it yelped, and the tone was deep enough that Nizar assumed masculine pronouns would remain appropriate. Nizar watched the struggle for a moment. Despite the bloody nose and black eye, Hamid trapped the thrashing body against his chest with arm and leg pins, snarling orders to Raif over the boy’s curses. Nizar ignore him to look through the wallet. He laid out its contents on the counter.

A wallet said a lot about its owner. The folds in bills could detect neatness. Wrappers and junk hinted at magpie tendencies. And of course the items themselves spoke volumes about habits and preferences. Nizar found nothing but a photo-less ID, forty-seven credits, and an expired credit card. Nizar scowled. The names on the ID and the credit card didn’t match.  _ Great. Someone with something to hide. _ __

Eventually, Hamid and Raif finished cleaning the boy. They tossed him roughly back onto the rug. The boy barely managed to his feet under him when Hamid pushed him down, dragging a towel over his head while Raif dried the rest of him. They looked at Nizar for further orders during the struggle.

“Take him to the bedroom,” he said in Farsi. “I’ll be there shortly.” They seemed momentarily surprised by their own language, but nodded quick enough. There was no way Nizar was using English around the boy. At least not until he had a better idea of what he was dealing with.

Nizar took his time folding the muddy clothes. He planned on having them washed, thoroughly, and the chore gave him time to think. What did Fahd drink home? It could just be a thief, and one just on the wrong side of luck. But Nizar doubted he was that fortunate.

The boy exuded danger. Nizar had expected drunken punches, or hysterics from hangover and confusion. There had been little of either in that struggle. Though sluggish, every strike the boy made had been calculated, and as precise as possible. Hamid and Raif were both skilled fighters. They had to be. They both earned top marks in hand-to-hand and weapon combat. Hamid had seventeen assassinations under his belt, twelve which had been completed with sniper rifle or knife.

And the boy had bloodied him. If he fought that well drunk, Nizar could only imagine the havoc he would inflict sober.

“What the hell did you find?”

Nizar dumped the soiled clothing into the laundry and then headed to the kitchen. He poured the drunk boy a glass of water; he was probably dehydrated, given the amount of vomit, dried remains and general stench, had been on his clothes. Nizar carried it back towards the bedroom, passing Hamid and Raif in the hall. He stopped them to examined the damage. Nizar sent them back to their post with permission to get the first aid kit from the hall closet.

He stopped outside of Fahd’s bedroom, listening to the frantic scuffling inside. Nizar imagined the boy examining the room, frustrated by the hangover and the lack of windows, doors, or ventilation shafts. Nizar turned and let him pace. Food. Food was the best way to soothe mongrels. Besides, he was probably hungry and nauseated.  _ Crackers will do. Shouldn’t upset his stomach. _ __

“So,” Nizar started once he returned to the bedroom with a tray. He opened the door. “Should I call you ‘Aubrey’ or ‘Mikhail?’ Or is there an ID I missed?”

Nizar might not have been expecting him to be sitting on the bed complacent with fear, but he hadn’t been expecting a heel to explode out of his peripheral vision. It connected with his temple like a sledge hammer. Dropping to the carpet, Nizar saw through red-and-black lined vision the quick, staggering movements of lean, naked legs.  
  
There was little that would fit the bastard. He would have to stop and search for his clothes or else run out of the penthouse naked. Run into them naked. Nizar counted on not only his assumption of the boy’s preference, but also his assumption that Nizar ceased to be a threat.  
  
Which he hadn’t.  
  
Nizar pulled himself up using the dresser, ignoring the vertigo. The naked footfalls were near the end of the hallway by the time he calculated, and dismissed, two equations factoring the distance traveled, time took to chase or phone, and the proximity of anything the bastard could use as a weapon. Nizar searched the dresser. The bastard was nearing the turn. If he didn’t stop him now, there would be hell.

The paperweight was heavy but fit perfectly in his palm. Fahd never used the ugly glass thing anyway. He wouldn’t miss it.

The boy’s head snapped back with a sharp cry. Nizar grinned. The glass paperweight had slammed into the junction of head and neck. The bastard’s legs tangled as his body shut down from the sudden impact and shock. He collapsed at the end of the hall.              
Sixty-three and his aim was still damn near perfect.

Between the fall and the blow, Nizar’s arthritis was almost unbearable. He staggered towards the boy, hand pressed to the wall for balance and assurance. When he reached the bastard, he sneered, having managed to focus every bit of anger and pain on him. It made the look of pain on the bastard’s unconscious face immensely satisfying. The bastard didn’t stir when Nizar prodded his head with his foot. Nizar crouched with difficulty. He measured breaths and pulse, peeling open an eye to watch it roll backwards.  _ Not faking it. _ __

Nizar picked up the paperweight. Long, deep cracks splintered across the surface. The bastard would be out for a while.

He waited, seated against the wall, for the vertigo and pain to lessen before moving the body. There was going to a new bruise to add to the boy’s collection by the time he woke up. When he could, Nizar lifted the body. It was a limp and uncomfortable weight on his shoulders, but Nizar managed to drag it back to the bedroom. He had no problem finding Fahd’s horde of chains after depositing the boy on the bed,

“I suppose his interests are somewhat useful,” he muttered while looping the chain around the bedpost. He fastened the cuffed wrists together. Nizar restrained the ankles in a similar manner and attached it to the opposite bedpost before climbing off the mattress. The stretching-out had flattened the small breasts and pressed ribs against the bruised flesh. Nizar had crossed the boy’s ankles before binding them, so most of him was hidden. He frowned. If one or two pieces were different, he would look normal.

_ He’s right. My resources couldn’t come up with this. _ __

Nizar spent the rest of the day in the living room. He tried to enjoy his “holiday” by catching up: finishing overdue paperwork, writing letters to the few friends he had kept after his military service, reading. But the pain and vertigo eventually turned into a numbing headache, so he didn’t get everything done. Around four, Nizar found himself stretched out of the couch, wincing from his pounding head. He had taken a handful of aspirin, but it wasn’t helping. The condensation and cold glass from the bottle of wine he had pulled from the freezer was, however.

“I thought steak was the classic remedy for a black eye,” Fahd said once he came home.   
           
Nizar turned his head and glared at him, shivering only a little from the cold condensation dripping down his cheek. Fahd, jacket over one arm and folders tucked under the other, tilted his head.

“This is your doing,” Nizar said simply.

“Mine? I wasn’t even home.” Tossing the folders and jacket on a chair, Fahd sat down the coffee table. He examined the bruising forming around Nizar’s eyes. Smirking, he whistled. “That’s a shiner. How’d you manage that?”

“Your fucking toy,” he sneered. Fahd frowned.

“You fought?”

“You could say that.”

“I hope you didn’t hurt him, Nizar.”

“Your concern is touching. I didn’t hurt your precious abomination. I got it clean, dropped it off in your bedroom, went to get it water and something to eat—”

“Hard rinds of bread, I imagine.”   
           
“—and had my kindness rewarded with a heel to the head.”

Fahd nodded. “You upset him. He’s rather self-conscious.”

“I can see why.”

“What happened then? I assume you didn’t let him get away with such rudeness.”

Nizar removed the bottle. Smirking, he wipes the condensation away and pried out the cork. “I hope you weren’t attached to that paperweight.”

“Is it broken?”

“Quite.”

“He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

“He was last time I checked on him.”

“When was that?”

Nizar sipped the wine before looking at the clock. “This morning.”

Fahd sighed heavily and rose. Nizar smirked. He was about to return the bottle to his eye when Fahd dropped one of the folders into his lap. Frowning, Nizar set the bottle on the coffee table.          
     
“What’s this,” he asked as he pushed the papers back into the folder and tapped it against his thighs. It was a habit.

“Considering it something of an owner’s manual, complete with pedigree.”

“You’re not actually planning on keeping him,” Nizar asked.

Fahd shrugged. “Well obviously I can’t, considering what a poor babysitter you are. And he can’t be left alone. Who knows the trouble he’d cause? I admit, I’d also feel a little bad for separating him from his career and his friends.” He sighed and shook his head. “He won’t be staying, but he will be visiting us quite often from here on out.”

“What makes you think that?”

Fahd smiled, a cold and calculating leer. “A hunch.” He nodded at the folder. “Take a look. I thought it would be good for you to have a chance to look over his particulars. Hopefully we can avoid situations like this in the future.”

Nizar scowled as Fahd left, chuckling. Taking a long drink, Nizar sat back on the couch and examined the folder. It was surprisingly thick. What kind of baggage was the boy carrying?

It started innocently enough. A profile page complete with a three-by-four of the boy, pre-beating. The several N/A’s didn’t bother him; a lot of people didn’t reveal, or know, birth dates or places. Such blanks came with war. Nizar didn’t worry until he connected the name—Trowa Barton, which was actually at the top of a long list of aliases—with the list of occupations and pastimes.

003 had joined the Preventers several months ago, after a brief and apparently unsatisfying return to the circus at the end of the war. He had been a desk agent until recently, when he had his first operation: an undercover job, at a club Nizar knew well. He had been discovered. The mission was deemed failed. And 003 returned to desk duty.

Fahd kidnapped a Preventer, a pilot-turned-preventer? And  _ that _ one?

Groaning, Nizar tossed the folder on the coffee table. He snatched the wine of the table and drank. Leaning back, he rest the bottle against his throbbing eye again, glaring at the ceiling.

“I hate you.”

*-----*-----*

Trowa should have trusted his instincts. He should have turned around and driven off. By the time he had gotten home, though, he had been too cold, tired, and irritated to pay attention to instinct. He ignored how not only the porch light but every light in the house was out. And when he couldn’t quite ignore it, he had reasoned with it.

_ That damn porch light’s been flickering for days,  _ Trowa insisted to himself as he pushed his bike up the last bit of gravel. It was late and he didn’t want to wake anyone.  _ It was bound burn out.  _ Trowa pushed down the kickstand and then pulled the tarp over the bike. He straightened it.  _ Heero’s probably going to take it apart tomorrow after work.  _ Stepping back, Trowa pulled his helmet off. He glanced at the dark house.  _ That was a nasty storm…Maybe the transformer blew. Or maybe they aren’t home. _ __

The cars were in the driveway, but Trowa tried not to think about that.

Trowa dug in his pockets for his keys, an odd prickling sensation tickling the back of his neck. It felt like being watched, or particularly bad déjà vu. He almost had the key out when he realized what it was.

He was dreaming.

On the one hand, that was good. It meant the Middle Eastern man—Trowa wasn’t sure if he was Arabic, Pakistani, or something else—yet. On the other hand, it also meant that he was unconscious and vulnerable. Well the other Trowa, the one dreaming/remembering how hard it had been to find his keys. The one who stopped and shivered, looking over his shoulder with a minor look of alarm.

That had actually happened.

“There it is,” he muttered after shaking his head. Trowa felt carefully for the lock. He paused, suddenly scared. If he went inside, he would have to. He had promised.

Catherine asked him, just after dinner and as she was seeing him off from the grounds. To do it. To talk to them. About it. And about what happen. Eventually. It didn’t have to be tonight, or tomorrow, or even this week. But she asked him to talk to them. They had been through so much; they had learned to depend on each other. Couldn’t he depend on them now?

If Trowa went inside, he would have to talk to them. He had promised her he would. And although he didn’t want to, Trowa realized on the ride home that he would actually do it.

Trowa rubbed his eyes. He didn’t want to admit it, but something had finally become more important than the secrecy. This—the house, the job but most importantly them—was something he didn’t want to lose. He couldn’t pick up and start again. At least not easily. It wasn’t even just that he was exhausted, in so many ways, and wouldn’t make it down the drive. Trowa was comfortable. He was satisfied, most days. He was happy.

He was happy. Trowa laid his head against the door. Everything was calm and stable, and he was surrounded by people who understood what he’d been through. For the most part. Sure, tomorrow they might confront him. Tomorrow they might tell him it wasn’t working out, that he was making things difficult. But before this happened, Trowa was happy, and he would do just about anything to keep that happiness.

Including taking the initiative. Sighing, Trowa unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The house was chilly. Not that Trowa fully noticed. He was confused by the candles. They were everywhere, flickering from paper towel dollies and casting cheery red-and-yellow glows across the walls and furniture. Tilting his head, he peered into the kitchen. The microwave display was blank. The nearest candle was a messy lump of wax. It had to have been burning for a while.

_ That fucking transformer. _ __

Trowa was halfway to his room when he stopped. Up the candle-dappled stairs, he heard it. Voices. The left side, towards Quatre’s room, was dark, but the right side, towards Heero and Duo’s room, was glowing warmly with more candlelight. As he looked, Trowa swore the muffled voices got louder.

They were home, and upstairs. Trowa pressed a hand to the wall and listened. He was too far away to make out words, but he recognized Quatre’s laugh. A faint smile spread on his face as he heard Duo curse shortly after. It widened when he heard the short low noise that was Heero’s chuckle. Their voices were soothing, even from downstairs. He sighed and laid his head against the wall.

He didn’t want to, but he knew himself better than that. If Trowa didn’t do it now, he never would. He supposed he should consider himself lucky. They were awake, and Trowa knew that he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to wake them up for this conversation.

Their voices became clearer and louder as Trowa headed up the stairs and down the hall. Fingers gliding along the wall, he listened, sidestepping the worn patches hidden beneath the carpet; espionage had been his specialty and Trowa hadn’t forgotten how to memorize layouts. Outside Heero and Duo’s door, he stopped. The light here was sharper. Artificial. Probably from one of the camping lanterns they kept in the basement. Trowa, back pressed against the wall, leaned towards the partially opened door, and listened.

“Isn’t fucking fair,” Duo complained. Part of the bed was visible, as was one of Duo’s feet. It tapped angrily against the comforter. Quatre’s hand flit in and away in a pacifying gesture.

"It was an accident, I swear.”

“Bullshit.”

“Duo.”

“You’ve been going behind my back, haven’t you?” Trowa’s eyes narrowed.

“I have not.”

“Have so.”

“Duo,” Heero said. Trowa shrank back as Heero’s back slid into view. Trowa noticed almost immediately the lack of its usual tension, and the calm set of his shoulder. There was a crook in his normally straight posture, too. Relaxed, almost playful. Trowa frowned. His eyes slid down to the loose hold Heero had on the neck of a bottle.

Great. They were drinking.

“You can’t win every match,” Heero said as he refilled Quatre and Duo’s glasses. The two of them shifted to allow Heero to sit on the bed. He shook his head, sinking down to the floor inside. Quatre leaned over and clinked glasses with Heero, a toast to his victory.

Duo on the other hand sulked. “I know I can’t win every match,” he said after a long sip. “But he never beats me.” Quatre scowled.

“You never lose this gracelessly to me,” Heero said.

“You’re at least a challenge sometimes.”

Heero smiled some. “Oh? What about Wufei?”

“I like my stomach in my body and knife-free, thank you.”

“Ah I see.”

“Look that’s not the point. The point is Quatre couldn’t beat me if I let him win.” Heero and Quatre exchanged a look. “Which means he’s been playing behind my back.”

“Who am I going to play with considering you have the only chess board in the house,” Quatre asked.

“I bet you and Tro sneak up here all the time to play.”

The mention of his name, and the hardly-subtle innuendo behind it, shocked all of them. Including Duo. He took a long sip of wine, looking away. Heero finished a third of his drink, and Quatre half of his, before anyone moed. Quatre then set his glass on the chessboard and leaned over to look at Duo’s wrist. He brought it close to his face.

“Another hour and it’ll be a full twenty-four,” he sighed.

“Time flies when the electricity’s shot,” Duo said.

“I could have fixed that damn transformer myself,” Heero muttered.

Duo reached over and stroked his hair. “I know, babe, but I don’t Une would appreciate have to pull rank on the local precinct. Again.”

“I wouldn’t have climbed the pole if they actually came when I called. And I did fix it.”

“And pissed off the electric company.”

Heero snorted. “That summons was bullshit. Who steals electricity?”   
       
“You do apparently.”

“I pay good money to light this house, the least they can do is fix the damn transformer when we call.”

“They did.”

“After two days. And look, it blew, again.”

“They probably saw your number yesterday and though ‘it’s the crazy electric thief, let them suffer’.”

“Half the block runs on this transformer.”

“They’re trying to turn the neighborhood against us.”

“Very funny.”

“You never should have climbed that pole.”

“They should have replaced the transformer.”   
           
“They might have if they hadn’t caught you up there.”

“This is not my fault.”

Quatre sighed. “I hope he’s alright.” He said it so softly, Trowa almost missed it. Heero and Duo didn’t. They turned and watched him stare out what had to be a distant window. Heero shifted a little toward Quatre’s leg.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Heero said gently. Quatre nodded, but slowly. Unconvinced. “We would have heard if he wasn’t.”

“Although a spill on the highway might pound some sense into him.” Quatre gave Duo an unusually venomous look. “Non-lethal, of course.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be.” Quatre huffed. He nearly knocked the glass off the board when he moved to get off the bed. Heero scowled at Duo and gestured with his head. Duo pulled Quatre back by the wrist.

“Let go, I’m going to bed.”

“Not letting go, you know I didn’t it like that.”

“And just how did you mean it, Duo,” Quatre asked. Duo opened his mouth and then closed it. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away.

“I don’t know,” he said, picking at the bedspread. “I guess I’m just—”

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘bitter,’ I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Trowa couldn’t remember the last time Quatre threatened to hit someone, or threatened to hit someone with that swear. Heero and Duo shared Trowa’s surprise. Duo reacted first, though, snapping his mouth closed and frowning.

“I think I have every right,” he spat, “considering Trowa lied.”

“Oh that’s right,” Quatre said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “He ‘lied’.” He snatched up his glass and drained it before tossing the glass onto the bed. “Isn’t it lonely up on that pedestal? Trowa didn’t lie. He couldn’t have, since we never asked? Now if you had said, ‘Trowa, is there something physical disturbing about you that we should know about’ and he said ‘no,’ then you could accuse him of lying. But that’s not how it happened, is it?”

The “disturbing” hurt. It was better than he deserved. The best he could, or should, hope for. But it hurt.

Duo hesitated some. “Well no but—”

“Damn right, no. He had a secret. That’s it. So you can’t be fucking bitter, okay? We all have secrets.”

“Okay, I think you’ve had enough,” Duo said after a moment, moving the glass away from him.

If Quatre wasn’t planning to hit him before, he certainly looked ready to do it now. “Damn it, Duo, don’t patronize me!”

“I’m not, Cat. Well no I am and I shouldn’t, I know.” He sighed and ran a hand along the back of his neck. “You’re right. I haven’t been very fair—” he smiled a little when Quatre glared. “—okay, okay even remotely fair, to Trowa. You’re right. We all have our secrets. I guess…”

He sighed, bringing his braid around his shoulders. He picked at it nervously, as he often did when he was frustrated or upset. “I don’t know. Bitter is easier. I get bitterness. I understand being bitter. And this, this I just don’t…get.”

“I don’t think Trowa gets it much himself,” Quatre murmured.

“We always expected secrets,” Heero said slowly, glass dangling from his fingers. His eyes glittered in the light. Disturbed by the absolute focus of his gaze, Trowa shrank back into the dark hall. “They kept us safe, so we kept them close. We don’t necessarily,” he struggled with the word, “ _ need _ them now, but it was never expected, never asked, to give them up.”

“But we can,” Quatre said.

“Yes, Quatre, we can, but we don’t have to. It’s still okay for us to have them.” Heero’s voice rose at the end, just a bit. He glanced up at Quatre, with a tiny but painful question tightening his face.

Quatre sighed. “I would never make any of you tell me anything.” He reached down and stroked Heero’s hair. “I promise.”

Trowa shivered suddenly. He assumed it was because of the anger now rolling across his face. His limited consciousness focused on how Quatre’s fingers laced in Heero’s fair. He shook his head and inched forwards, focusing on the sneer pulling at Duo’s face.     
         
“Trowa didn’t even get a chance.”

“Une really thinks the leak is internal,” Quatre asked.   
           
“Oh she knows it and she’s furious. I hope whoever it is can run very far very fast, or has a wife and two kids being held hostage. Une’s out for blood.”

Heero nodded. “Prison might not be an option.”

“That bad?”

“You have no idea.”

“Her choices are narrow,” Heero explained, leaning back into the bed again. “There’s those of us on the operation—”

“That was a fun hour,” Duo muttered.

“But there’s other people who had access to the information. Or could get access. Une was tight on security, but there’s more people than she wanted in on it. Whoever it is has to be high up or involved. Or both.”

“People don’t even know about this,” Duo said. “There are rumors, of course, because you can’t shut those down. But no one knows Kader is so far up on our hit list, or that there’s a leak. They know there was an operation, and it failed.”

Quatre sighed and nodded, rubbing his eyes. He slid down onto the bed and curled up on his side. Somehow he managed not to upset the board. He buried his face into the bedding. After a moment, Heero rose and sat on the edge of the bed while Duo slid around to sit at Quatre’s back.

Trowa shuddered again.

“I haven’t noticed anything,” Quatre murmured into the bed. “No new faces in his entourage. No unusual calls. Perfectly composed, as always.”

Duo rubbed his back. “No one’s asking you spy on him.”

“He’s mocking us.”

Duo tilted his head. “Mocking you?”

“He knows someone knows,” Quatre insisted, gripping the bedspread. “He’ll be perfectly composed and then he’ll turn and just from the corner of my eye that…that fucking grin.”

“Cat,” Duo murmurs. “Don’t do this.”

It was hard to watch. They always tried to help before it got this far. They knew the tone, the signs, of an attack of that strange condition Quatre jokingly called “space heart.” Sometimes, though, like tonight, it came too quickly. Quatre pulled his knees, clutching at his chest. Trowa shivered as Quatre began to gasp.

“He, and I, I just can’t do anything.”

“No one’s asking you to do anything, “Heero said.

Trowa assume, when he bent over Quatre’s curled body, that Duo was trying to hear whatever Quatre must have muttered. So the shivering and the sudden urge to run as fast and as far as he could confused Trowa. When Duo took too long, though. When he slid his hand through Quatre’s blond hair.

But that was impossible. Even without the creaking coming from the ceiling in his bedroom, Trowa knew that Duo was that tactless or heartless. And Heero would never accept such a blatant act. So the fact that he wasn’t lashing out, or at least glaring, meant that Trowa just wasn’t seeing clearly. He was hallucinating. His imagination as completely out of control.

Duo pressed his lips to Quatre’s shoulder.

_ Fucking idiot. _ __

Trowa gasped, pain suddenly lancing up his arms. It spread across his chest. Gripping the doorframe, he covered his mouth with his hand. If they hear him gasping, whimpering as he was. But they wouldn’t. Not with them so occupied. __

_ Stupid fucking idiot. You honestly thought it wouldn’t be different? _

Trowa’s vision darkened as he stumbled back. He sank to his knees as he whimpered. The noise wasn’t loud enough.  
_  
__You thought they’d be interested in you? Fucking idiot. Stupid. Idiot._

Trowa staggered into the wall. He would never make it down the hall. There wasn’t enough oxygen in his lungs. He’d fall somewhere. Probably down the stairs. They’d find him, but then he would have to hear—

“Heero!”

_ Stupid fucking freak! _ __

Trowa shot out of bed, or rather he tried to. White hot pain danced down his arms, strangling a breathless cry from him. It ebbed a little when Trowa fell back to the mattress. Trowa became distinctly aware of something warm and sticky slipping along his wrists, which were held above his head. When he squirmed, hoping to twist out of the hold, a second restraint scratched his ankles.

The unfamiliar ceiling and double set of cuffs should have had Trowa bucking. Instead, he stared at the blood coating the metal, too confused at the moment to panic. It wasn’t until he realized his memory was frighteningly incomplete that the first twinges of terror started. Trowa’s pulse raised when, through the headache pounding at his temples, he felt the slick caress of bed sheets.

Bed. Cuffs. Naked.  _ Bad _ .

“You’re awake. Good, I was starting to worry,” Kader said with almost genuine concern. The dipped where he sat. Trowa’s hips rolled towards him. Kader pat Trowa’s quivering thigh with a large, warm hand. “How are you feeling?”

Trowa’s mouth opened silently twice before he could speak. “You son of a bitch.”           
    
Kader rolled his eyes. “Hello to you, too.” Leaning over, he brushed hair from Trowa’s eyes and attempted to examine his head. “How’s your head?”

“Don’t touch me,” Trowa snapped, wrenching his head away. Smirking, Kader caught his hair and twisted it. He pulled Trowa’s head back. “Get these things off of me.”           

“No. You gave Nizar quite the shiner—”  _ Good! _ “—and I have no desire to have a matching one. Now how’s your head?

Trowa remembered the man with the scarred face standing over him briefly. And he remembered dropping like a rock as the world went black. He supposed he had to give the old man some credit; whatever he had him with had hurt, and his aim was impeccable. The base of his head still hurt.

“How do you think?”

“Between the alcohol and the paperweight, I think you have an impressive headache and would like some aspirin.”

Trowa grit his teeth. “No thank you, I’ll manage.”

“Right. Well, I’ll just get some anyway. In case you change your mind.” Kader rose, knocking Trowa’s hips back. “I’ll be back, so just relax.”

Trowa waited until Kader was gone before trying, again, to free his hands or ankles. When that became too frustrating and painful, Trowa tried to piece together his memory. There was too much of a drunken haze over it to get far. Panic pulled at his attention. Trowa’s pulse pounded in his ears. He shook his head hard as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He needed to stay calm. Needed to focus. Trowa whipped his head around to take in the room.

Bed. Well, that was a given. Trowa flexed and stretched but found no edge. Large bed, then. Despite knowing what he’d fine, Trowa looked towards his hands and then his feet. There was about half a foot from either set of cuffs to their respective bedpost. Trowa’s head fell back to the sheets. He measured the sides. He was stretched across the middle, from upper left to lower right. The posts were subtly ornate and stopped before the ceiling. Trowa shifted his hips. The sheets were sleek and cool. Expensive.  
            
On his right, there was a dresser made of the same wood as the bed. Standard looking: six drawers, three on each side, black handles, polished top. There was a handgun in its holster between a hairbrush and a bottle of cologne. Trowa caught his reflection in the mirror over it. Bruises, manacles, and all.

Trowa yanked his head away. As he did, he caught sight of a desk just to the right of the dresser. Same building material, but the contents piled on it were more interesting. There were several folders and varying thickness, and a couple of books that Trowa assume were manuals. Large pieces of paper hung off the desk edge. They were either maps or schematics, judging by the size.

He couldn’t satisfy his curiosity, so Trowa looked away. He turned to the left side of the bed. There was a bedside table closest to him, complete with lamp, book, and alarm clock. The corner nearest the bed was lined with books, with a chair sitting the open space between the two tall cases. He squinted at the titles; less than half of them made any sense to him. There was a closet on this side as well, but it was closed.

Trowa frowned. There was something wrong. It took another look around for Trowa to name it. There were no windows. Anywhere. Nothing to interrupt the soft glossy bronze color of the walls. He swallowed. No windows to get his bearings with or escape through. No vents, either.

“You’re in my most current residence,” Kader said from the door. He had a tray and an irritating smirk. “In my bedroom, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“It was,” Trowa replied. Observation had done most of its job; the panic was manageable and, for the moment, he was controlled. Trowa’s voice dropped back to its usual pitch and cadence. It seemed to surprise Kader. He raised an eyebrow as he set the tray down on the bedside table.

“You’re within reasonable driving distance of your house and business. And your bike is in one piece.”

There was a fuzzy memory of Trowa cracking his head on the roof of an expensive car. He frowned. So that meant he left his bike. At the bar?

”Are you absolutely sure you don’t want something for your head? It looks like it’s starting to hurt again,” Kader said mildly.

“I’m thinking.”

“Ah, well that explains the pain,” he chuckled, unbothered by Trowa’s growl. “Allow me to assist. You’re probably wondering what you’ve forgotten in the last, let’s see, twenty-four hours or so.”

Trowa’s mouth twisted into a sneer. Kader smirked.

“I thought so. Well let’s see,” he said, ignoring the way Trowa tugged angrily on his restraints, “When I found you were exceedingly drunk. The bartender was going to call you a cab but decided to argue with me instead of seeing you home. You could barely stand up or understand the conversation, but you agreed to come home with me. I got you out of the bar, carried you to me car where you were violently ill. And then you cracked your head on it and fell asleep in the passenger seat. You were still sleeping when I left this morning.”   
Trowa’s stomach clenched and churned.

“Now what happened before I found you,” Kader said, with a brief but poignant glance at him, “I can’t tell you. You’ll have to figure that out on your own.”

Trowa had no problem recalling those memories. Getting rid of them was the issue. Hence the alcohol, which had failed to do the one thing Trowa had asked of it.

Kader must have noticed his irritation. “Just take the aspirin. There’s nothing odd, I promise. It’ll help with the pain.”

“It’s not the fucking pain,” Trowa snapped. He regretted the slip immediately because Kader was instantly curious.

“Then what is it? Something from before the bar?”

Trowa was not that easy to rattle. Or that upset. Forcing some semblance of calm, he rattled his cuffs. “Why am I here?”

“You would probably feel better if you just told me.”

“Why am I here,” he said slowly, pulling harder. The smile melted off Kader’s face. Trowa inhaled sharply as Kader moved, covering Trowa’s body with his wide shadow. He gripped Trowa chin tightly and smirked at the sudden stillness of Trowa’s chest.   
“I would have thought that was obvious, Trowa Barton.” Trowa waited for the large hand on his face or the one next to his head to move. This was nothing new, he reminded himself. He was expecting it. He could handle it. He would definitely handle it better this time. Trowa braced himself for the fingers on his skin, dredging up older touches in their wake. So when Kader suddenly moved away, rocking Trowa on the mattress, he couldn’t stop himself from gasping.

“You’ll find that I’m obsessive. Especially when it comes to anyone particularly interesting, or who challenges me. You do both, so naturally I’ve found myself rather preoccupied with you.” Kader crossed to the desk and took some folders from the top of it. Trowa sifted through gentle language easily: Kader was stalking him  _ because _ he was a freak.

“Of course,” Kader continued, “I didn’t, and I don’t, expect you to cooperate.”  _ How perceptive of him.  _ “So I took the liberty of providing a few, a few incentives.”

Kader opened the folder over him. Sheets of paper, some glossy and some not, fluttered on to him. Trowa raised his head. High-resolution photos. Of the house, Preventer Headquarters, Wufei, Zechs, Duo, Quatre, Heero. Even Catherine. Their homes. Their lives. Between a photo of Une, Zechs and Wufei during a debriefing and another of himself and Heero pulling apart the lawnmower engine was a report headed “Millardo Peacecraft.” Quatre’s was next to his right knee, Duo’s draped over his left. Heero’s and Wufei’s were somewhere out of his sight. Maybe by his head. His own had landed on his abdomen, next to a shot of him bent over his desk.

“I was in a bit of a rush, so this was all I could throw together. There’s more, if you’re interesting,” he said. Trowa’s eyes widened as he moved from picture and report to the next, the magnitude of the situation finally dawning on him.

“How?”

“I’m leading a shadow militant organization. Or a terrorist organization, according to Preventer logs. I have to know everything about everyone, including you and yours,” he said. Brushing aside some of the papers, Kader sat again by his waist. “I know where you live and work. I know which café you buy your lunch from. I know when and where you visited your sisters two days ago.” His pulse pounded in his ears. “I can find any of your coworkers, and any of your friends, at any moment. I can order a missile strike or tactical assault in the next.”

“You don’t have the capabilities,” Trowa said after a long silence. There was nothing about weapons’ operations in any of the reports. Nothing. And there were not nearly enough bodies in the area for a tactical strike. The group was fledgling: growing, planning, building alliances, finding its strength. Kader was in bed with manufacturers and marketers on the black-market, and with professionals and lethal freelancers deep under the radar. But nothing had come to fruition yet. It couldn’t, not with the king’s health causing a state of panic.

He was bluffing. He had to be.

“I assure you, Trowa Barton,” Kader said. He held another photo in front of Trowa’s face. It was of the house, just the house, painted in the gold and sapphire of twilight, and stamped with a blood-red sight. The time stamp wasn’t even a week ago. They had all been home.

“I could,” Kader said slowly. “If I wanted to.”

“If,” Trowa asked after a moment, taking the bait. Kader smiled. He reached down and stroked back Trowa’s hair. He fought the urge to bite.

“I don’t want to blow people up, Trowa,” he said, grinning. “Or send a team in to eradicate them in their sleep. Especially not your friends. It’s disrespectful.” Trowa’s brows raised then knitted. “I would much rather kill the pilots myself, face-to-face. A missile or guns in the dark are an insult to your skill.”

It was times like this Trowa wished he hadn’t destroyed Heavyarms…

“As much as I want you, and as much as I would love to prefer to deal with you all directly, I can’t jeopardize everything. Some compromises had to be made. Thus,” he smiled, waving the photo at Trowa before setting it on his chest.

Trowa looked down at the photo. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“I could blow them up, if I wanted to. If you cooperate, and I think you will, then I’ll have no reason to.”

A fist twisted in Trowa’s stomach. He knew what that meant. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering to ask.

“Cooperate how?” The question ended with a hiss. Kader’s hand, the one not stroking his hair, had slithered between his legs. It was an unwelcome, heavy warmth.

“I already told you,” he purred into Trowa’s ear. Trowa tightened as the hand moved ever so slightly upwards. “I want you. And I will have you. The question is, do I have to kill them first?”

Trowa focused on the extortion to keep the noise in his throat and the blood from rushing to his face. The hand was moving, quick and insistent and up. Extortion. The son of a bitch was resorting to this? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just do him while he was unconscious?  _ Of course not. No room to say no, and where’s the fun in that? He likes the kicking and screaming. He’s banking on the guilt. _

And god fucking damn it if it wasn’t working. Trowa squirmed, gritting his teeth. Part of him—betrayed and vindictive—wanted them to burn. Maybe it was the whispers or the bitter taste of finally seeing what he knew he couldn’t have, but Trowa didn’t care. His battered pride demanded blood.

The rest of him, though, understood. Like-minded individuals tended to come together. Dependent on the strength and the comfort they could draw from each other because they had similar, or the same, experiences. Trowa didn’t expect anything different from them. It was for that very reason that they had decided to live together in the first place. He wasn’t actually surprised that it had finally evolved into that final ultimate expression of comfort. Or maybe it had always been like that and Trowa just now was learning about it. They might have been trying to protect his feelings. Even if they didn’t want to invite him in, they weren’t so cruel as to rub their relationship in his face.

Trowa knew how stupid it was to be angry or upset about it. He hadn’t done anything to deserve their affections. After all the opportunities he had spurned or ignored? He never opened up to them. Never really considered it.  It was because of fear and a misplaced need to survive, but he had insisted on his space. Event if they had asked, if they had begged, Trowa would have rejected them.

He didn’t have the right to be angry now.

They might not even want him. Why would they want him? There was no ignoring what Trowa was. Freak. Unfit for anything. Trowa knew that. It had been made clear to him years ago. No one forgave him for being so warped and ruined.

What kind of atrocity was he, then, to hope they would suffer? If he loved him—and Trowa did, although sometimes he didn’t think he could call it love. He couldn’t be capable of it, after everything—how could he deny them whatever happiness they could find?

Kader was going to rape him, anyway. Why should some good come out of it?

Trowa’s body burned. He twisted fitfully, fingers and toes raking at the sheets as Kader’s fingers pushed in. A low whimper made it out of his throat, vibrating weakly against Kader’s lips when he leaned in.

He shouldn’t have to do this. Trowa didn’t know the rules this time. It was stupid and unfair.

In the back of his mind, Trowa could hear the soft, breathy gasp Quatre let out as he called their names.

He was selling himself. For nothing.

“D, Deal.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the arrangement begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning: exploitative/non consensual sex in this chapter; references to previous abuse

“Would you grab the plates for me?”

Quatre was looking over his shoulder as he said it, so Trowa didn’t actually have to answer. Glancing towards him, Trowa nodded. He finished filling Heero’s mug, set the half-empty coffee pot on the table and gathered the empty plates. He set them one-by-one on the counter next to Quatre to receive the morning’s pancakes.

“Thanks,” Quatre said with a smile.

“Of course,” Trowa answered before carrying a plate over to the table. He looked up just in time to see Duo bounce down the stairs. He held back a grimace, waiting.

“Thank god it’s Friday,” Duo cheered.  _ Maybe for you. _

“Only for some of us,” Quatre said, gentle but poignant. Duo had enough tact to look somewhat sheepish. He ran a hand over the back of his neck.

“I’m sure she’s not going to make you work the next three weekends.” Trowa’s blank stare showed quite nicely just how much stock he put into Duo’s certainty. “I mean, okay, you come in at all on Monday, and okay you didn’t actually call out. And it kind of put some of us in a bind.”

“And you worried half the unit,” Heero put in, the slight edge to his words the only indication he was still annoyed about the matter. And worried.

“That too.”

“It wasn’t exactly my intention,” Trowa said, frowning.

“I never said it was,” Heero said.

“And I did call.”

“Monday night. On your way home.”

Trowa sighed. Yes, Monday night, and it hadn’t done him much good. Not that it had been entirely his fault, what with being chained to that bastard’s bed.

He set the plate down harder than he meant. Quatre, assuming it was frustration from the conversation, smiled some.

“I’m sure if you explained—”

“No,” Trowa said, shaking his head. “I made choices I should have. These are the consequences.”

“But you were in a freaking accident. That’s kind of a legitimate excuse,” Duo said.

Trowa shrugged, maintaining the fib. “Minor accident. Minor injuries. No hospital visit.”

“And you have no idea how happy we are about that.” Actually, Trowa did. Duo had been astoundingly friendly and supportive since Trowa came home, probably because he’s prediction had, apparently, almost come true. Not that it had. Not that Trowa could tell him he overheard. Still it was slightly mollifying. “Thank god your bike got more beat up than you.”

Trowa winced. He almost cried when, after Nizar dropped him off in the parking lot and driven off with the blindfold, Trowa realized he would have to drop his bike at least twice to make it convincing enough to suit his story. He managed to drop it three times. Four times would have left enough damage to allay even Heero’s suspicions, but it was more than Trowa could handle. He was going to be saving for months as it was to fix the damage. 

Besides, Heero was Heero.  _ If he wants to be suspicious, he’ll be suspicious, with or without my help. _ __

Even now, Heero’s attitude changed. His fingers tightened around the bowl of fruit he was carrying to the table. As they passed each other, Heero’s eyes narrowed and ran over Trowa with eerie intensity and efficiency. Trowa kept his expression carefully blank. After a moment, Heero broke off the search.

Duo and Quatre might take Trowa at his word, but Heero didn’t. He simply couldn’t. Heero’s brain wasn’t wired to just accept. Everything had to be scrutinized because there was always something to be found.

During the war, Trowa had been thankful for that talent. Now he was just thankful Heero knew next to nothing about motorcycles. A fact that could change if Trowa gave him enough reason.

Trowa shook his head, sitting down at the table after putting down the last plate. “I could have found a way, accident or no accident. I’ll just have to accept the consequences.”

“But three weekend shifts,” Duo sighed. “That bites.”

Quatre smiled at Trowa as he sat down. No one knew better than him how hard straight weeks of work could be. He reached for the syrup in the middle of the table. Heero and Quatre’s fingers touch, light and brief, over it. Trowa kept his eyes on his plate. He had told himself on Wednesday to stop dissecting every action and expression, to stop obsessing over the proof, or lack thereof, of the drunken one-night stand.

Because it wasn’t a one-night stand and he knew that. He hadn’t found any proof to the contrary. They were just being mindful and respectful of his feelings and comfort levels. So he needed to accept that it was there, even if he couldn’t always see it. Hopefully it would make it easier to ignore them.

Duo was just about to snag the last pancake from under Quatre’s fork when the phone rang. Three of them look towards it. They never got phone calls this early.

Thankfully, none of them notice how the color drained from Trowa’s face.

“Little earlier for solicitors,” Duo said as Quatre got up. Quatre picked it up midring. Trowa’s coloring didn’t start to come back until he was absolutely sure the call wasn’t meant for him.  
  
“Hello,” Quatre said, frowning after a few moments of silence. “Yes…oh, yes I see…uh huh…No! No it’s, it’s fine. I can leave now. That should give me plenty of time.” Duo looked up from the pancake he was starting to cut into and frowned. He threw a nasty look at the phone and Trowa wondered if he was actually going to get up and yank it from the wall. “I’ll be there soon. Yes… of course. Good bye.”    
          
“What they want now,” Duo asked once Quatre hung up the phone.

“Relena,” Quatre said, running his fingers through his hair, “wanted to know if I would take over a meeting. The organizer can’t, or won’t but it doesn’t really matter now he’s so fired, make it.”

“Uh huh, was that actually Relena?” Huffing, Quatre picked up his coffee and took it into the kitchen. “You’re not finish breakfast?”  
  
“No time, I need to leave.”

“The meeting is today, isn’t it,” Duo asked. Quare came out with a thermos. He set it on the side table as he tugged on his jacket. “And this idiot waited until the last minute, didn’t he?”

Quatre’s smile was tight. “Leftovers please?” Heero nodded. Quatre relaxed a bit. He zipped up his coat and grabbed his coffee and keys. “I’ll see you all tonight.”

Duo opened his mouth after the door was closed and Quatre’s car was out of the driveway. Heero put up a hand.

“Just eat.”

Breakfast was short; the three of them had lost their appetites. Heero and Trowa left untouched pancakes on their plates. No one touched Quatre’s barely-eaten meal. It all ended up in the trash.

If either of them noticed Trowa’s sudden lack of appetite, or the awkward way he handled clearing the table and washing the dishes, they didn’t ask about it. Why should they? Trowa had been careful to keep the anxiety about Kader’s impending call to himself. Although it was getting be a close thing. Eventually someone would notice something, especially if he dropped something like he did Tuesday night.

Trowa wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be impressed or furious with the bastard’s restraint. If he would just get it over with, then Trowa could focus on steeling himself for the next encounter. And then the next, and the next. He could begin to desensitize himself. Again.

With breakfast taken care of, he followed Heero and Duo outside and into the flurries. There had been no rain or sleet all week. The snow didn’t stick either, which would make today another nice, dry drive. Trowa didn’t even look at his bike as he trailed behind them and then climbed into the backseat. Like he had done all week, and would do all next week too.

He settled in, shuddering when the engine turned over. He closed his eyes. At least today Duo decided they needed the radio. He turned it up so it would drown out the low grinding of the engine as it struggled. The engine needed looking at again. Hopefully it could wait until the warmer months; he didn’t want to take it apart in the middle of winter.

The commute was uneventful, except for the amount of swearing Heero allowed as he hit almost every red light and the engine shuddered and groaned at each. Heero pulled into the underground garage and parked, and only Duo insistent pulling on Heero’s jacket kept him from popping the hood and tearing into the engine now. The three of them headed towards the elevator. Heero glared at the car one last time as they neared it.

Trowa frowned as they stopped outside the elevator. Half a roll of yellow caution tape sealed the door.

“Looks like she took your advice,” Heero said. Duo sighed as he followed Heero to the stair well.

Heero and Duo were already near the second floor by the time Trowa managed to get into the bottom of the stairwell. He caught Zechs and Wufei coming from their car and held the door for them. And then several other operatives hurried after them. Trowa waited until there was a break in the line to slip in himself. The stairwell seemed narrower than usual thanks to the high traffic. He stuck close to the wall as he headed up.

Maintenance workers, armed with toolboxes, came down the stairs from floors above, walking two by two. Trowa pressed a little further into the wall. He still knocked shoulders with one of them who was just a little too broad for the stairwell. The worker turned slightly on the step and inclined his head.

“Excuse me,” he said in a low voice.  
  
“No problem,” Trowa managed after a moment, resisting the urge to turn away. The larger, darker man nodded and continued down the stairs. Trowa continued up, somehow managing not to look over his shoulder.

Sanq was a diverse place. The Preventer headquarters, and its various other sites, were diverse. There were Middle Easterners on nearly every floor. He knew it wasn’t Kader, and he knew it was ridiculous—and rude, and racist—to associate everyone with the bastard. Trowa also knew that it was something about the face. Trowa knew it from somewhere and that it was somehow connected to Kader.

Maybe it was the split lip.

By the time Trowa reached his desk, he decided to put it out of his mind. He wouldn’t figure it out anytime soon. Trowa shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the back of his chair. He sat down and looked at his usual pile of papers and reports. He frowned, and then looked at the rest of his desktop.

His pen was gone.

Trowa had others, but he remembered putting his pen on top of the reports yesterday. He always put it on top, and it had never wandered off before. The small disruption put him on edge. There was a logical explanation; there had to be. Someone might have taken it, or knocked it off. It was probably under the desk. Trowa ducked down to look. No pen. Frowning, he straightened and opened the drawer on the left. It was there either. He opened the first of the three drawers on the right.

_ Someone walked off with it,  _ he decied as he closed the first and opened the second drawer. It was the likeliest answer. He closed the second drawer. Why would some take the time to pick up a pen, open the bottom drawer of his desk—

\--and stick his pen on top of the papered-box they left in it?

Trowa stared at the plain, brown packaged. His thoughts moved quicky from how it got there to how many steps there were between his desk and the windows. A bomb this size was most likely useless, except if it was packed with the right materials. Or partnered with other bombs in other drawers. Trowa reached for his pen and, as calmly as he could, nudge the box with his finger. It shifted easily, and it rattled.          

Pen in hand, Trowa closed the drawer. He turned to his work, scanning the first report and starting to cross reference. So it wasn’t a bomb. There was no bomb that he knew of that was that light. Nothing practical anyway. He felt no safer, but since it wasn’t a physical threat, Trowa ignored it for now.

He considered the box again when he opened the door to get his backup set of flags. Now having something of an idea of what the box was, Trowa set the flag set on the box and pulled them out together. He set the box by his lamp, where it stayed while Trowa worked through the pattern he had just started to notice.

Since he decided to ignore it, the few people who walked past his desk also ignored it. Even when, after an hour of following threads, Trowa set his pen down and picked up the box, no one asked him about it.  _ It’s amazing when you can get away with when you act like nothing’s wrong. _ __

Trowa almost lost his practiced calm when he opened the box. He barely held in the gasp and barely managed not to throw the box across his desk. Somehow though Trowa compressed his shock into a tight clenching of his fingers around the box.

Of everything he expected to find, his cell phone wasn’t it.          

His alarm faded almost as soon as it began because Trowa knew that it couldn’t be his cellphone. Kader hadn’t had the opportunity to take it. Trowa hadn’t take it to the bar; he hadn’t even taken it to Catherine’s. And since his “accident,” just to soothe Quatre and Duo’s nerves, he had kept it on him all week.          

Still, he had to be sure. Setting the box in his lap, Trowa leaned back and stretched. As he lowered his arms, he patted the sides of his coat. His phone was still in the right pocket.

Trowa set the box back by the lamp, picked up his pen, and returned to chasing threads. About half through the next report he scanned, he realized it didn’t look much like this phone. It was roughly the same size and color: gunmetal gray, fitting mostly in the palm of his hand, still narrow enough for his thumb to scroll across the screen easily. The feel tough was different. Trowa’s phone was a rough little thing, scratched and dinged since it had slipped out of his hand more than once. It was the most basic of “smart” phones he could get. Mostly reliable, fairly functional, not particularly fancy. Expendable.          

The phone in the box was new, sleek and stylish. Expensive.

The next time he picked up the box, Trowa noticed paper under the phone. He plucked it out, read it once, and then tossed it and the box back into the drawer.  _ God damn him. _ __

He waited until lunch. Once the floor was mostly empty, and once he had politely declined Heero’s invitation to join them, Trowa opened the drawer again. The phone was heavy in his hand. Pushing away from his desk, he stood and walked as normally as he could to the restrooms. Dozens of people took or made calls in there every day, but Trowa generally didn’t. Which is why he waited, and why he kept his body relaxed and his stride long and unconcerned. He didn’t trust him not to draw attention otherwise.            
The bathroom was dark. Trowa walked five steps across the tiled floor before the motion detector spotted him. The lights flickered on. He leaned against the wall by the sinks. It would look less suspicious than going into one of the stalls. Hopefully.          

Trowa glared at the phone before setting it down on the edge of the sink. Paper first. He was sure it was instructions, and not the ones usually found in a standard operating manual. The handwriting was surprisingly sloppy.

**_Your lock screen and voicemail password is 4735._ ** ****

Trowa tossed the paper into the trash after ripping it into unnecessarily-tiny pieces. Snatching up the phone, he considered throwing it away, almost in unnecessarily-tiny pieces. Trowa turned it on and unlocking it.

The screen flashed white, and then the display popped up. Trowa grit his teeth as he looked at the background pictures: a collar and chain, on top of a familiar mattress. Trowa searched through the phone for the voicemail system. It took him longer than he liked.          

“Please enter your password,” the mechanized female voice said, tone rising and dropping. Trowa punched in the four-digit code and settled back against the wall, crossing his legs. He was sure he would need the support.          

“You have no new messages. First skipped message—”          

Trowa shuddered when Kader’s voice started purring in his ear. “I trust my gift arrived on time, bright and early Friday morning, and that you found some time in the morning or afternoon to open it.”

Trowa remembered the maintenance worker. He paled.          

“I know you already have one of these, although not of his quality. But this, this is my gift to you: a direct line of communication. Please don’t trouble yourself over the bill. The phone is registered in my name, and I’m more than happy to cover the cost. Which means yes, I can and will monitor everything you say and do on this phone.”          

_ Of course you will. _ __

“I suggest not using this phone for any other purpose but talking with me. I also suggest you take this phone with you wherever and whenever you take your other one.”          

Trowa grits his teeth.

“In fact, you should make answering this phone, my gift, your priority. I’d even take it to bed, if I were you.”

He didn’t have to suggest what would happen if Trowa didn’t. Trowa dug his nails into the phone.

“Oh. Before I forget, you probably noticed there’s no charger in the box.” Actually, Trowa hadn’t. But now the knowledge knotted his stomach. “I admit, I forgot to pack it, but you can pick it up when you come over tonight.”          

Trowa’s legs trembled.

“Nizar will meet you outside the office at 7:30 tonight. Feel free to bring your bike. I’m looking forward to seeing you. And don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get plenty of rest for work tomorrow.”          

The soft, robotic voice signaled the end of the message, but Trowa barely heard her. He set the phone on the sink counter and then bent over a sink. He refused to move until he got his shaking under control. Finally though, Trowa splashed some water on his face, swept of the phone, and stumbled out of the restroom.          

No one noticed. There was still ten minutes left in lunch.          

Sinking into his chair, Trowa opened the drawer. He stopped short of throwing it in. It hung for a moment by his ear, trembling with his fingers around it. Slowly, Trowa sat back. He slipped the new phone into his coat. Face carefully, perhaps too carefully, expressionless, he returned to his work.

The day dragged. Everything flitted and spun around in his head. It was ridiculous for him to be this upset over something he agreed to—yes he agreed under duress but that wasn’t the point—but this wasn’t fair. He couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen when Nizar finally brought him back to that apartment. He shouldn’t think about it, though, since the blush was hard to fight. How had he even gotten his schedule? Trowa’s workplace and his house, sure, but his hours?  _ Why are you surprised? He got a phone into my desk! Of course he’s going to get my timesheet. _ __

Trowa broke his pen when he briefly wondered if tonight would be better or worse than last week. Or the alley a few weeks ago.          

He had just finished mopping up the ink when Duo sat on the edge of his desk.          

“Five-thirty,” he announced.

“I do have a clock,” Trowa said.          

“You’re not paying much attention to it you’re starting a new page.          

Heero slid up beside him. Between their bodies, Trowa caught a glimpse of Zechs and Wufei. They met his stare. Zechs waved. Wufei nodded towards him, a gesture Trowa returned before they both disappeared into the stairwell.          

“Let’s go and beat the traffic.”  Trowa eyed his stack. It was tall enough to be convincing.

“You go on ahead.”          

Duo frowned and waited until Trowa had started to highlight the top of the report. “You remember driving in with us, right?”          

“Vividly.”          

“Great, so how are you planning on getting home if you don’t come with us now?”          

“Taxi. Or bus.”          

“No, seriously.”          

Trowa sighed. “I’ll crash upstairs.”          

“The hell you will. Those beds are only good when you’re running on seventy-two hours and just don’t give a shit anymore.”          

“Duo, I need to be here tomorrow morning,” Trowa said, somehow managing to sound calm. “Weather’s going to be shit in the morning, and it’s not exactly fair for me to ask you guys to take me in. It’s better if I stay the night. It’s not like I don’t have stuff to do.”          

He had plenty to do, and going home would just make his night worse. Not only would he be late for his “rendezvous,” but there wouldn’t be a quiet way to sneak out of the house.          

“I don’t mind driving you back,” Heero said. Trowa closed his eyes. He could almost feel Heero searching his face. He sighed, opened his eyes and turned to them with what he hoped was a small, appreciative-but-stubborn smile. Heero frowned a little but nodded. “But if you’re sure.”

“I really should get this done.”          

“All right. Just eat something, and call. If you change your mind.”          

“I will.” Trowa turned away before his expression could crack. Duo sighed, throwing his hands up but sliding off his desk.          

“Fine. I think it’s stupid, but hey, it’s your back.” His lips quirked into his usual smile. “Une’s not going to give you a break for braving those beds, you know.”          

“She’s not going to punish me for it, either. Night Duo.”          

Trowa waited until he could safely assume they were both down in the garage before dropping his pen and holding his head. There was little time before he had to go, and even less time before his head was too involved with things it shouldn’t be. He couldn’t focus, but he needed to try. The pen felt oddly heavy when he picked it back up.          

He managed to stay focus just long enough to get through another few reports. Trowa rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. He shuffled his marked and flagged papers together and put his pen back onto the top of the stack. He looked at the clock again.          

It _still_ read seven twenty-five.           

Trowa pushed back from his desk. He stood, reluctantly tugged on his coat, and pushed his chair in. He patted the pockets of his coat. Both phones were still there. Trowa wrapped his hand around the old one as he headed from the stairs. The stairwell was mostly empty. The garage was almost completely empty. He grit his teeth as his hands trembled.          

There were thirty cameras on this level of the garage. He walked by at least a dozen on his way to the exit ramp and the street. Trowa kept his stride long and even, if not a little quicker than usual. He checked his phone twice. The next bus wouldn’t come for twenty minutes; if he actually took it, it would drop him a mile away from home around midnight. Trowa needed to be convincing. He put a spring into his step, just enough to convince anyone watching. Or anyone who would be curious enough to check the feeds.          

Snow nearly fell sideways as he reached the street. Trowa pulled the collar of his coat closed and looked around. Down the street, someone hurried towards the nearest open store. There were a few cars, but they were all dark and covered in a couple inches of snow. Trowa shivered and looked at his cellphone. Seven thirty-five.

Maybe something came up. Or he got tired of waiting. Maybe he hit black ice and went over a guardrail. Trowa snorted; he couldn’t be that lucky.

An engine rumbled to his left. The black pickup with the thinnest layer of snow flashed its lights once. Trowa frowned; at least it wasn’t a limousine, or a Ferrari. _Or a van with tinted windows_.           

Hands in his pockets, Trowa turned and walked down the sidewalk. The truck waited, its driver probably poised to beep— _or shoot me_ —before it followed. Trowa ducked down the nearest alley before anyone could notice then.          

The alley was fenced off at the end, but Nizar could manage a K-turn if he was careful. Or just back out. The truck stopped a few feet shy of Trowa’s knees. _This is what the executed feel like,_ Trowa decided as he stood, back against the fence, blinded by luxury high beams.          

Nizar stepped out of the cab. He walked slowly around the hood and stood between the beams. Trowa refused to squint.

“Where’s your bike,” he asked. His English was almost accentless.          

“Didn’t take it today.”

Nizar muttered under his breath. Trowa decided not to mention that no one would be looking for him.          

“Get in.”          

The cab smelled of fresh leather and cigar smoke. The seats were smooth and firm. It was a new, or rarely used, vehicle, but Trowa didn’t doubt that it came with the best security money could buy. Trowa wrinkled his nose as he got in and buckled the seatbelt. He folded his arms over his stomach, content to settle in until a thick black cloth landed in his lap.          

“Put it on,” Nizar said, closing the driver’s door. Trowa scowled at hm. “Put it on or I bash your head against the dash until you pass out. Your choice.”          

Trowa snatched up the cloth. Nizar’s brow furrowed with what had to be disappointment. He turned away just before Trowa tied the blindfold tight.

Riding in a car was hard. Riding in a car blindfolded was worse, especially when the driver was a man who had tried to crack your head open and obviously wanted to try again. Trowa swayed with the turns, counting the first few—left, right, straight for 1000 feet maybe, red light, red light, left—until it was too nauseating. He swallowed and dug his fingers into his palms.          

Eventually, when was uncomfortable close to fidgeting, they stopped. The engine cut off, and a door opened then closed. Trowa felt for the buckle, assuming now was not the time to yank off the blindfold, and then the door handle. The expensive plastic disappeared from under his hand with a click. Trowa clawed at the air, and then at the large hand wrapped suddenly around his elbow. It pulled. Trowa barely got his feet under him before Nizar closed the passenger door with a jarring slam and pulled him away from the truck.          

Trowa let Nizar pull him through the garage—it had to be a garage, the echoes were too large for anything smaller—without much struggle. Nizar released him when they were in an elevator. Trowa felt the floor shiver before it started to move. He felt for a wall or rail. When he found a wall, Trowa leaned into it. There was no music. The rhythmic tapping he heard had to be Nizar.          

The elevator stopped smoothly and with a quiet chime. Trowa pulled away from the hand that tried to gra his arm again. “Take it off,” he snapped.          

“Let’s go.”          

“Take it off,” Trowa said slowly. He heard Nizar growl. “What could I possibly see now?”          

“Plenty,” Nizar sneered. But he must have seen the way Trowa tightened, ready to swing, because he yanked the blindfold off anyway. Ripping a few hairs in the process.          

Once his eyes adjusted, Trowa glared at the hall he was whisked through. Tall, cream walls, smooth except for the occasional, expensive wrought-iron light fixture and rare oak door. Or camera. There were no windows, but at the other end of the hall was a door, almost seamlessly hidden by paint. Thick red carpet ran the length of the hall. Considering all the expense, Trowa was certain that the hall was seriously soundproofed, and very little noise would carry.          

He would never get a chance to test it, thanks to Nizar and the two suited men standing in front of one of the doors.          

Nizar swept them aside with a short command. They moved, and Trowa followed him inside.

Trowa hadn’t had the chance to look at his prison the last time, what with the drunken stupor, the unconsciousness, and finally the exhaustion. It was an attractive cage, he would give it that. The rooms opened one into the other, evolving from faux earth to chrome to glass and a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The furniture shifted with the colors and materials, each piece distinct but appropriate, all of it luxurious. The impracticality of it choked him.

Nizar led him to a steel-and-granite kitchen off the living room. There, Fahd Kader sat at a steel-and-glass dinette, enjoying what had to be a late dinner, complete with wine. The first few buttons of his dress shirt were undone. His suit jacket and tie were draped messily over another chair. He stood once Nizar brought Trowa within grabbing-distance.          

“There you are. I was beginning to worry.”          

Nizar snorted. He eyed the jacket and tie with disappointment. Kader shrugged. Nizar snatched them up and left, muttering under his breath. Kader shook his head before looking at Trowa. His mouth quirked into a small smile.          

“You opened my gift, I see. I’m so pleased. I trust Nizar gave you little trouble.” Trowa sat stiffly when Kader gestured to the chair at his left. He watched Kader’s muscles flex beneath his shirt as he moved.          

“If you don’t count blindfolding as trouble,” Trowa said.          

“Be glad I reminded him or he would have improvised.”          

Trowa ground his teeth. “Who do I think I’m going to tell?”          

“No one, but you can never be too careful.” He patted Trowa’s thigh, the fingers dipping into the small space between Trowa’s leg. Trowa’s body locked. “Have you eaten? It doesn’t matter, you’re too thin anyway. Eat.”

Trowa looked at the table while Kader picked up an empty wine glass. There was plenty of food, some of which he recognized. Well within his reach were assortments of bread, fruit and vegetables, as well as a bowl of…something that smelled delicious. Anything with meat was as far from him as possible. Trowa frowned.

“Don’t tell me you’re one of _those_ vegetarians? You don’t ask the other pilots to eat in a different room do you?”           

Trowa stiffened, fingers clenching against his thighs. The balls Kader had! He kidnapped him, threatened him. Exploited him. Raped him—again. Dangled Trowa off the edge of a cliff all damn week. Infiltrated his thoughts, disrupted his sleep, disturbed his meals. He snuck a goddamn phone in his desk.          

And now. Now he wanted to be considerate?  _ Of my food? _ __

Trowa snatched up the glass from where Kader had set it by his plate. Red dripped down Kader’s face, dripping off his chin and onto his wine-stained shirt. The wine glass tremble in Trowa’s hand. He felt the stem giving beneath his fingers.

“This isn’t a date,” Trowa snarled. “Don’t fuck with me. Do it and then let me do home. I have work tomorrow.”          

The slowness with which Kader picked up his napkin and wiped his face should have warned him. Trowa reared back when one of those impossibly large hand lunged from his throat. He swung the glass, hoping it would surprise him. Kader caught his wrist. Trowa bit down a yelp at the crushing grip. He almost screamed when Kader yanked him out of the chair and spun his kicking, thrashing body. He pinned Trowa to the floor. Glass and flatware rained around Trowa’s head.          

Trowa wanted to buck, but Kader was too settled on him. His shins crushed Trowa’s knees into the floor, his hands pressed his face and shoulders down. It would be easy for Kader to break Trowa’s neck.  _ And blow up the house before I’m cold. _ __

Kader was silent. Trowa, breathing heavily through his nose, wished he could turn his head and at least see the bastard’s expression.

Finally, Kader huffed. “Since you are so eager.”

Trowa hissed as Kader pulled him by the hair. He stumbled after him, around the broken glass, through the living room, and down a hall. The hall was vaguely familiar; he was fairly certain that corner was where he had collapsed. Kader yanked open at door at the end of it and threw Trowa carelessly inside.

Scalp aching but refusing to touch it, Trowa watched him close the door. He tensed as Kader came close. He circled Trowa, slowly, one hand moving from one shoulder to the other. Kader unbuttoned his soiled shirt with disturbing ease.

“I liked this shirt,” he said before tossing it aside. Trowa snorted and lifted his chin. His legs tangled when he was suddenly turned. Kader crushed him against his chest. He pushed their hips, and his, together. Trowa shoved at his chest, snarling against his mouth. Kader smirked against him before biting hard at his lower lip. Trowa clamped his mouth shut and shuddered as Kader’s tongue swept over the sting.

Trowa dropped his arms and locked his knees. He waited.

Kader pulled back slowly, the grip he had on Trowa’s waist loosening. He tilted Trowa’s chin and frowned when Trowa met his gaze briefly before starting at a spot of paint behind the man’s ear. The mobile suit hander he had started meticulously imagining as a distraction jolted out of place when Kader shoved him.

“Get undressed,” he said, sitting on the bed. Kader crossed his legs at the knee and folded his hands. “Now.”

Trowa stared until Kader raised his eyebrows. Scowling, Trowa looked for something to focusing on as he yanked open his coat. There was a shadow just to the bastard’s left. Trowa stared at it as the coat landed on the floor and he toed out of his shoes. He tried to analyze the shadow’s fuzzy edges as he started on his shirt buttons.          

He forced himself to slow down. Otherwise, Trowa was going to have buttons all over the floor and no thread to put them back. He glared harder at the shadow, irritated when the shape name escaped him. If Trowa could figure it out, he could make his hands stop shaking. He would stop trembling and endure. The fifth button slipped through his fingers.          

“Do you need a hand,” Kader asked, grinning when Trowa’s eyes unwillingly flicked to him. The button loosened under Trowa’s jerking thumb. “Four more. And then you can rip the zipper in your pants and tear the elastic in your panties.”          

Trowa bit back a growl as he tossed the shirt aside. His hands continued to shake as they gripped the hem of his dress pants.          

“That first,” Kader said, nodding at the binder. Trowa tensed. “Turn. I want to see how it works.”          

Trowa turned, slowly, hands clenched at his side. He stopped just before three-quarters of the way and refused to look at Kader as he worked on the snaps running down his side.          

“Interesting,” Kader murmured as Trowa worked the snaps open. “I’ve never seen something quite like that. It’s surprisingly streamlined, even with the additional snaps. You have that pulled rather tight, though, so I suppose the extra fabric hides them. Wrapping might be easier, although you probably would have to rewrap often. To each his own.”

Trowa tried to ignore him as the binder loosened. He let out a shaky breath, straightening a little as the hold eased on his chest. Trowa pulled it carefully over his head. Kader made a low, appreciative noise as the binder slid off. Trowa shuddered and held the stiff fabric against his chest.          

“Turn around.”          

The interesting shadow. If Trowa didn’t time it just right, Trowa would turn right into his gaze. The shadow was on the left, just past his head. He’d be careful. Trowa turned.          

Kader grinned when Trowa flinched from his heavy, hot stare. “Leave that with your shirt,” he murmured. Trowa, cold and hard behind it, dug his fingers into the stiff tan fabric before releasing it. The binder dropped like a stone. “Good. Halfway there.”          

Trowa felt his face heat. He ducked his head, hands dropping to the waist of his pants. His fingers skipped and slid over the button and zipper. He paused. Trowa could just let them drop and endure an irritating comment about nervousness, or he could pull them down like he usual did and let his breasts hang and endure an entirely different kind of comment.

Trowa let them drop. He stepped out of them and shoved them away with his foot.          

Kader ran his eyes over him slowly. “You never struck me as the panty-less type.”          

“I don’t wear panties,” Trowa snarled.          

“I noticed.” Trowa clenched his fists.  _ I will not cover myself, I will not cover myself. _ __

He grew uncomfortably, embarrassingly warm under the intense scrutiny. Warm, and wet. After a moment Kader smirked and gestured him close. He said nothing about Trowa’s pace. Kader uncrossed his legs when Trowa was close enough and pulled Trowa pulled them. His hands fit far too nicely on his hips. Trowa stared at the wall while Kader rubbed his hips with his thumbs. Trowa waited. Waited for lips, or hands, on his stomach. Moving down his stomach. Moving down.          

He didn’t expect the pulling.          

Trowa followed the hands, sitting on his heels between Kader’s legs. He refused to look up at him. Trowa mostly had control of his hands until he pushed aside the smooth gray cloth of Kader’s dress pants. He was…big. Like the rest of him, and a slightly darker shade of brown when aroused. He smelled of sweat, and musk. Then motor oil and cigarettes. Hot metal and cheap alcohol. Trowa gripped his knees as the noxious mix choked him. Dread danced, like cold fingers, up Trowa’s stomach to his chest. He flinched from the garbled whisper that exhaled sour words against his cheek and left a dull, ancient pain on his ear.          

A hand settled on his head. Trowa jumped. Kader tilted his head at the brief, unguarded expression Trowa knew he had turned up to him. Trowa ducked away from the hand reaching for his cheek. Kader would forget that momentary weakness; he would make him forget.

Kader moaned when Trowa wrapped his lips around the head of his erection. Trowa grimaced but ran his tongue around the head before sucking. He needed to remind himself, as he took him deeper into his mouth, that Kader would never be around motor oil, and he would probably be shot before drinking cheap alcohol. Trowa couldn’t be sure about the cigarettes.          

As he neared the root, the sweat and strong smell of human were too much to think about something like cigarettes.

“You’re better at this than I thought you’d be,” Kader said, running his fingers into Trowa’s hair. Eyes closed, Trowa waited for the downwards push. There was only light scratching and tugging. Groaning in frustration—frustration, not confusion and certainly not mild pleasure—Trowa lapped at the underside of his cock before moving his head slowly. He let Kader touch the back of his throat each time. His fingers wrapped around the rest.          

His jaw ached, and so did his scalp when the light scratches turned into a solid grip. At least, Kader moved his hips slowly. Trowa sucked, wrapping his tongue around him when he could. Saliva dripped down his chin. If he was lucky, he’d be able to wipe it off soon.          

Trowa let out a strangled, muffled cry when Kader bent over him. The head pushed hard against his throat. Trowa pushed at his knees. Kader slid a hand insistently down his back to his ass, grabbing a handful of flesh and pulling.          

“Lift your hips.”          

Kader stayed still while Trowa shifted. Balanced up on his knees, Trowa’s clutched Kader’s thigh, nose deep in his pubic hair. He grunted and gagged with every slow but forceful thrust. Trowa didn’t notice Kader’s hands until one of them stroked and then peeled apart the folds of his vagina. Trowa jolted, nearly choking himself.

“Relax,” he said, nudging the entrance with his finger. Kader pushed the tip in carefully. “You don’t want to be that tight.”          

Trowa tensed under the constant burn of the pushing-retreating digit. The burn sparked and spread, flickering up towards his stomach before tapering off. He let out a low, uncomfortable groan. The finger pushed deeper, the second knuckle sinking in. It curled, straightened, and curled again, and then brushed against something. The heat this time was milder, almost pleasant. It curled in Trowa’s abdomen for a moment before disappearing.

The noise Trowa made was softer, longer, and a little less distressed.          

He had forgotten, though, what a sound like that could do to a cock in his mouth.          

Kader growled as he came. The fingers in Trowa’s hair and in him curled hard. Trowa gagged on the warm, bitter fluid but managed to choke it down. Semen trickled out of the corner of his mouth as he coughed. Tears pricked at his eyes, Trowa sat back on his heels. He locked away as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Kader suddenly grabbed Trowa’s wrist. He pulled him forward. Trowa gasped as he nearly fell into his lap. He pulled on the grip, biting at the sticky fingers now cupping his chin. A thumb swept across Trowa’s swollen lips, smearing leftover semen across his mouth. Trowa sneered. _Disgusting pervert._ Before Trowa really decided to bury his teeth in the thumb, Kader pulled him onto the bed.           

Trowa dropped any remaining pretenses of disinterest or stoicism as Kader dragged him across the sheets. He curled, and then immediately shifted his arms and legs. There was no way to hide everything, but still he tried to. It didn’t matter that Kader had already seen anything. He wanted to keep some kind of dignity, some kind of privacy, and didn’t want to scuttle back across the bed. Kader let him squirm and hide until his pants were done, discarded somewhere over the side of the bed. He settled near Trowa and caught Trowa’s fist when he lashed out. He unwound the tight ball Trowa had turned himself into. A knee nudged apart Trowa’s legs.          

Trowa shut his eyes as Kader laid him out. He didn’t want to see how his breasts flattened when out when he was on his back, with hands on either side of his head. He didn’t want to see how wide his legs had to spread to fit Kader’s knees. He didn’t want to see the pink tongue sweep over white teeth, or brown eyes marking the lines and curves of his open, ugly body. Trowa twitched when a warm chest lay carefully over him. Kader breathed against his neck. Gripped his hips. Trowa swallowed. His toes curled.         
Trowa screamed, high and frightened, as Kader split him. Or maybe it was the thich end of a bat. The wrench need to refill the suit’s ammo clip? Drunk, impatient mercenaries? Trowa twisted his shoulders and hips.          

“Would you hold still,” Kader growled, catching Trowa’s knee when he tried to kick him off. “Relax.”

“Out, out.”

“It’s barely in,” he said. Kader pushed once with his hips. Trowa keened and pushed at his chest.          

“Please!”          

Kader’s hands slid from Trowa’s hip and knee. The hard, solid weight between his legs disappeared. Trowa scrambled back across the sheets. He curled up on his side, burying his face in the bedding. He bit at it when he felt a whimper clawing at his throat. Trowa barely felt the bed dip when Kader moved, although he caught the noise of the door and Kader quietly shooing Nizar away.          

Trowa flinched at the hot touch on his side. “That is not food,” Kader said, oddly gentle. Trowa squirmed away from his hand. Something too much like a sob escaped him as Kader took him firmly by the knee. He rolled Trowa over, pried him apart. Trowa shook his head.  _ No, no, no not again, no please— _ __

Trowa squealed. Kader chuckled against him before licking the sensitive folds again.          

“What, what are you doing,” Trowa tried, voice cracking. Kader tongued at him, his arms pressing down hard on Trowa’s squirming hips. A low, confused whine slid past Trowa’s lips as the pain started to dim. The tip of Kader’s tongue slid _in_ , and suddenly it was too hot and too wet to hurt.          

None of them had ever. It was revolting. Disgusting. Perverted. He was panting because he was scared and fuck, what did Kader just do?          

Trowa pushed his hips against Kader’s arm at the sudden spike of pleasure. Kader twisted his tongue against his small penis near the top of his vagina before sucking at it gently. Trowa arched some from the bed. Kader hooked his hand under Trowa’s knee and brought it over his shoulder.          

It was too hot and wet and disgusting to really think about, but Trowa’s hips still bucked. The tongue pressed and licked insistently. Trowa fisted the sheets by his head. The hot, wet thing licked the full length of them. Trowa twisted.          

They had never. They would never. He was a freak, convenient but gross. Filthy. Undeserving. He was a toy, a hole to exploit, and lucky they wanted even that much. They had never even been able to really look at him, and they would never.          

Kader rub his thumb against his small penis, stroking him while thrusting his tongue into Trowa again. Trowa shattered.

Somewhere past the pleasure that separated him from his body and the old, muffled voices, Trowa heard Kader. He moved up Trowa’s body, coaxing him onto his side. Trowa shifted from him. Kader stroked his hair, his cheeks and the wet trails that curled down them when Kader pushed in again, this time from behind. Trowa crashed back into himself. He twisted his hands into the bedding, body trembling. Kader wrapped an arm around his waist. He slid his fingers down Trowa’s stomach to his crotch. He rubbed Trowa’s tiny cock as he rolled his hips. Trowa hissed and moaned.          

Kader scraped his teeth against Trowa’s ear. Trowa shifted, stilling when Kader growled. Kader kept his movements slow, though. Roll, pause, stroke, roll. Trowa moaned softly. After a couple rolls, he retracted his nails from the bedding. After a while, he pushed back into the rolling hips.          

Kader’s grip tightened, pulling Trowa hard against his chest. He snapped his hips forward. Trowa cursed, but now Kader had been inside too long to hurt too much.          

“Much better,” he groaned into Trowa’s ear. With a bite that made Trowa gasp, Kader started to thrust.          

Trowa grunted and hissed in time with the fast pace. The noises made Kader chuckle. He rotated his hips, thrusting in at an angle that suddenly had Trowa gasping swears. After a few of those new thrusts, Trowa could only gasp.          

Cheek pressed into the mattress, Trowa panted. The hard head pounded at his center, and he rocked clumsily with it. Encouraging him. Trowa buried his face in the sheets, his fingers wound so tightly in them they would probably year.

He felt his pulse pounding in his head to the beat of Kader’s thrusts. He felt the gasps and moans building and bursting from his throat. He felt his breasts move, and every drop of arousal or bead of semen that slithered between his legs.          

The world went white when Trowa came, his body drowning in sensation and heat. For once, he wasn’t afraid of that crushing rush.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate everyone's patience and understanding as I slowly work my way through this rewrite. Things have been... Things have been. 
> 
> My mom lost her fight over the summer, and there is a hole in my heart where she was. But I'm pushing on as I can, and part of that includes finishing something she knew existed although she never really wanted to read it. She just knew it was important to me.
> 
> Thank you all for your interest, your kindness, and your patience.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trowa goes through the second day of their arrangement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter opens with the attempted sexual assault of child. This is in the past and is not explicit, but if this makes you uncomfortable, please skip to the first scene break.
> 
> This chapter also contains more exploitative sex.

 

“Oy! Nameless!”

The bolt popped out of the wrench with a screech. It clattered across the scaffolding floor. He scrabled after it. When he had it in hand, he felt the threading carefully. After stripping the screw on the leg, he couldn’t afford to mess up another piece of hardware.

“I know you hear me,” the mechanic—he thought his name was “Dex”—called. He glanced over his shoulder, determined he was up high enough to safely ignore him, and went back to the bolts. “Little piece of shit.”          

“Try his name next time.” Great, there were two of them. Now they would never leave.          

“Does he look like a chink to you?”          

“ ‘Nanashi’ is Japanese, not Chinese.”          

“Chink, jap, gook. They’re all a bunch of squinty-eyed fucks,” Dex spat. He frowned as he worked the bolt. The first group of mercenaries never cursed this much. Outside of battle, anyway. “And he ain’t one of them.”          

“The kid answers to it—”          

“And half a dozen others.”          

He set the next bolt down by his knee. Maybe he should have been more insistent on “Nanashi,” but he couldn’t take any chances. He hadn’t been there long enough for chances. They were itching for a reason to dump him somewhere. Even the leader, who was most likely to grumble out at least a little appreciate. No one trusted a child _that_ skilled with a wrench and a gun. No one liked being outdone by a kid. Pickiness could very quickly be called insubordination, and that was a good excuse to toss him in the next orphanage. Or a shallow ditch.           

He wasn’t really attached the name anyway. Captain had given it to him, begrudgingly, almost as an afterthought when they found him staggering along the road. It hadn’t become a title, a necessity, until after it became clear he would be with them for a lot longer than a few meals. He gradually grew accustomed to the strange group of sounds, and even came to like them in some instances. But he never thought of himself as “Nanashi.” He never really thought of himself as anything other than a pronoun. Sometimes, a very confused pronoun. People expected names though. “Nanashi” was at least convenient and familiar.          

He used to try and find his name. During the most menial jobs and the worst sleeplessness, he would dig in the few pieces of memory he had. It was like drilling through granite with a spoon. Once, he thought he found something, but then the oil line on the suit arm ruptured. Whatever it had been was gone by the time he finished cleaning his face. The ache in his chest had surprised him. But he solved that. No more trying, no more pain—just a deep sense of disappointment, and then emptiness.          

“—at last don’t take it so literally.”

“Do I look like a chink to you? Nameless!”          

He didn’t look back this time. Instead, he twisted the bolt off the rest of the way with his fingers. After all, he preferred “Nanashi.” Or “Kid.” Even “Green eyes” and “You” were higher up on the list than that.          

“Nanashi,” the other merc called. He glanced over his shoulder. This one specialized in software. He hadn’t spent enough time working on that part of the suit yet to learn his name. “See?”          

“Just get the little shit down her for dinner.”          

He made a face and turned back to his bolts. “Not hungry,” he called down.          

“That was your excuse yesterday,” Dex yelled. What was he complaining about? Now there would be more to go around."          

“You’re not going to finish that before dinner’s over,” Software explained. _Exactly._ “Come down and finish later.”          

“Needs to get done. Not hungry.”          

“Who cares if you’re not hungry,” Dex asked. “Get down here, you’re a freaking skeleton. You expect us to pull your weight forever?”          

He twisted and dropped the next bolt. It chinked with stubborn finality.          

“Whatever. I hope the little shit starves.”

Not likely. He and the cook, a barrel of a man with the same level of combat skill as the wrench, had an understanding. Cook saved him whatever non-meat things he had—usually bread and beans, sometimes rice, vegetables and cheese if he was really lucky—and in return, he weaseled his way into supply trips. As long as the store keeps and townswomen didn’t realize he was a mercenary, they parted with more, rarer food stuffs whenever they saw him. Or at least they charged a little less. It was pity, probably.          

It was a ridiculous amount of work, working his way into the trips, and it was work that didn’t make the other mercenaries very keen on keeping him. The trips were popular. They wanted…to do whatever they couldn’t do here, whenever they had the chance. But cook and the captain liked the extras. So he always managed to edge someone out. Carefully.

He didn’t really care if any of them like him. They just had to keep him. The captain made the decisions, the captain liked the extras. And it wasn’t like the mercenaries didn’t like them either. Just not when it was their turn to wait. If he could work out the same deal as before—          

No. There was no one he trusted enough to swap food with. Bryan had been an exception. Even if he thought refusing meat was strange, it wasn’t strange enough to keep him from trading all his non-meat for meat. He couldn’t trust these mercenaries like that. Except for Cook, who finally just shrugged. So he had to work for it, which was fine. If he had to work to not eat it, then he would work. And he was _not_ going to eat it. Meat always smelled like fire, smoke, and burned flesh. Never eat it. Never, ever. He’d starve first.           

He rubbed absently at his back. He had almost found the source to that decision in his dreams once. Lost it to an electric shock.          

With the last bolts outs, catalogued and circling his legs, he pulled off the gun’s main panel. The clip was empty. He frowned. It shouldn’t be empty; they hadn’t had a fight in days. It wasn’t his suit, so he wasn’t sure what happened, but he suspected small rodents were involved.          

At least they had extra clips. Almost twice what the other group had always carried.

He didn’t know why he continued to compare this group with the first one. There was no point. They were dead. The twinge in his chest was strange, too. It hadn’t started to fade yet, but he didn’t doubt it would.          

Mercenaries always needed extra clips, but this group needed them because the mercenaries were easily bored, and boredom led to stupid, usually shooting-related activities. It was a useful bit of information he had overheard on one of the first supply trips.          

He liked useful bits of information. The first mercenaries, among everything else they taught him (and there was the twinge again), encouraged his interest in overhearing, processing, storing, and retrieving useful bits of information. They had encouraged the silence, too; he liked the silence even more. Being able just to stand the right way and virtually disappear. That was thrilling. Being a child only made it easier. He faded in and out, turned big eyes on people who fawned over him. Then he disappeared to snoop on them. It was exciting, and practical.          

He never would have found out about periods otherwise.          

It was apparently a big deal for girls. The mother he had overheard had burst into the store and dragged several women away from the counter and into a corner to “share the good news.” She, the mother’s daughter, was a little young: ten, his own age, if he had been aged right (Captain had swore he was. Adam was the best medics the first mercenaries, and he, could ask for). But some of the girls were “early bloomers.” He still wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t matter. Her disgustingly detailed explanation of the symptoms did.          

No tenderness of the breasts, which he knew, thanks to the mercenaries, were some hidden part of his chest that would swell to the size of melons someday. No cramps, which was kind of like a stomach ache but lower. No changes in attitude or appetite. And certainly no bleeding.          

He frowned, not sure if the absence of all that meant anything other than not being an “early bloomer.” Of course, the mother’s daughter probably didn’t have a tiny penis, either. That probably changed things, but maybe it did. Maybe, maybe she did. He didn’t know.          

He sighed. Adam would have known. He could have asked him. Adam knew about him. He never liked talking about it, and he always told him to keep it to himself. But Adam knew and he would have answered his questions. If he didn’t know the answer, Adam would have gotten permission from Captain to find it.          

Not this medic. He didn’t trust this medic, who looked at him like he was a stray _and_ an interesting kind of animal. He wasn’t going to ask or tell him anything.           

He checked his work twice before confirming that yes, the maintenance was done and yes, he had to get down and get a new clip. Stretching, he stood, careful not to upset his bolt catalogued. He climbed down. He was a little more careful than he had been going up, now that he had greasy fingers. The suit didn’t mind his pace. They never did. He patted the cool metal when he touched the ground.          

Dinner wouldn’t last much longer. He wanted to be back up there, where he could safely ignore everyone, as quickly as possible. He hurried to the supply crates and flipped open the correctly marked lid.          

Bolts. Lots of bolts. Screw. Metal paneling. He looked from the contest to the lid and back again before flipping open the crate next to it.

Wiring.

Someone mislabeled, or misplaced, everything. Again.  _ I am not fixing this. Not unless the captain tells me to. _

“Not going to find any dinner in there, Nameless,” Dex said. He wore one of his usual lope-sided smile and was slowly swinging an almost-empty bottle at his side. “But if you’re nice…”          

He followed the lazy arch of the bottle with his eyes. When did they get alcohol? And what did they sacrifice from their list of oh-so-needed equipment and supplies to get it? Alcohol, he had learned, was expensive. Even the cheap stuff, and Dex was definitely drinking cheap. He could smell it on Dex’s breath. He frowned.          

If they had alcohol… He looked at the crates. It looked like they had enough suit supplies, mislabeled as they were.          

Maybe Cook wouldn’t have anything to give him after all.          

Dex blinked at the small frown he turned on him. Huffing quietly he turned his back on Dex and went back to rooting through the crates. He needed that clip.          

He expected Dex to leave. Well, to curse and then to leave. Dex always cursed and left because he wasn’t important enough to warrant more than a tongue-lashing. So when a large palm slammed between his shoulder blades, thrusting him over the crate, he was genuinely surprised. The hard plastic dug into his stomach. He ignored it, pushing himself up and turning.          

Dex sneered. “Arrogant piece of shit.”

It was a fairly large bottle, but Dex wasn’t swaying. He wasn’t slurring, either, which meant he wasn’t drunk. Or at least not the falling-down, easily-avoidable drunk he had seen them reach before. He watched Dex closing, inching slowly to the corner of the crate.          

“Try to do something nice for your skinny, ungrateful little ass.”          

If he could get the crate between them, he could make a run for it.

“Ought to teach you your fucking place.”          

The words were barely out of Dex’s mouth before his expression shifted into something contemplative but completely foreign on his usually rough features. Dex’s eyes roamed over him: over his shoulders rolled protectively forward; over his legs bent slightly at the knee and ankle, ready to run; over his face, which he could feel paling.          

When Dex’s fingers twitched and a pink tongue swept over his lips, he bolted.          

He spun away from the lunging hand, putting the crate’s corner between them. It managed to slip a finger into the back of his shirt. He dropped to the ground, dug in with his toes and exploded to the side. He just had to get back to the suit. There was no way Dex could climb—          

Pain exploded from his head, washing over him in a white wave. He floated, held up by the large hand crushing his wrist. He was dimly aware, as Dex yanked him around, that he’d been hit with the bottle. It must have broken. Everything was wet and he could smell alcohol on his skin, in his hair, near his ear.          

No. Wait. That was Dex’s breath.          

He grunted as he hit a crate. _Get up, get up._ His head was spinning and his arms didn’t want to move. They crumpled beneath his chest as he tried to push himself up. A hand slipped between his body and the plastic. He twisted and kcked as the hand fumbled with his pants.          

His foot connected with something. He kept kicking at it. Dex snarled. “Fuck! Little bitch.”          

Dex lay over him, crushing his ribs into the crate. He clawed at the edge. Dex forced his legs apart, hoping them open with his thighs. He stopped breathing when Dex got his fly open.          

Then he screamed.          

Dex capped his mouth with one hand. The other pushed down his pants. He bit the hand hard. Dex cursed, but still tugged on his underwear. He tossed his head, digging his teeth in until he tasted blood. Dex howled. The hands disappeared, but a knee replaced them, slamming up into him. His mouth rounded into a silent scream. It slammed up again, the pain and pressure against his penis intense. He sobbed.          

Dex stayed for a moment, rubbing slowly with his knee. Then suddenly, the weight and pressure where gone. He sank, boneless and throbbing, to the ground.          

“Shit. Oh shit.”          

Dex dropped to his side. He screeched as Dex pried his shaking fingers away from his legs. Dex didn’t even notice him clawing at him as he spread him open.          

There were footsteps, and cursing. Then, “What the hell is going on?”          

He never should have scream. Dex threw his legs closed and scrambled to his feet. He should have stayed quiet. Half a dozen men, the medic and the captain included, wouldn’t be staring at him if he had just been quiet. The captain stared at him, not at Dex at him, as Dex stumbled through a buzzing explanation. Swallowing, he inched his hand towards his pants. The captain’s eyes narrowed; he pushed past Dex. He scrambled back, tugging at his pants. Why couldn’t he get them up faster? The captain was an arm’s length away. He caught him by the ankle and pulled. His pants scratched down the backs of his thighs.          

Never scream. Never again. But begging, he could do that. If he was lucky, maybe it would loosen the captain’s grip. He couldn’t hear his voice over the thundering in his ears, but he felt the tips of his hair brush his cheek as he shook his head. And he felt his legs bruise as the captain held tighter and pulled harder.          

“Enough.”          

The words didn’t quite match his lips.

*-----*-----*

“I said, enough. Damn it, if you kick me again.”          

Trowa lunged forward with a scream. His stomach collided with something hard, which cut the sound short. It wrapped around his waist tightly. He screamed without breath. More of them came out of the sheets, winding around Trowa’s thrashing body. He could feel his bones grinding against each other as he fought and they tightened.          

He bucked, lungs burning for air. The heavy restraints shifted and pressed him face-first into the mattress.          

“Where do you get your energy?”          

Trowa sobbed around a mouthful of sheet. His ribs were going to collapse. The captain was too heavy. He squirmed, digging in with his toes and knees. Strong legs wrapped around his knees. Trowa screamed as a half-hard erection pressed against his ass.

The large hand that capped his mouth was finely calloused. Gun use. Knives. Maybe even a sword. A gentleman’s weapons. Filed nails, free of dirt and grease, topped long fingers that smelled mostly of ink, soap, and quality food and drink.          

And the skin was brown.          

Trowa was calm for a few seconds, and then he remembered why he was in Kader’s bed. The bastard actually chuckled when he felt Trowa’s cheeks warm. And then he remembered that he could only be ten years old in his dreams, and that he tended to talk in his sleep. It didn’t matter what he said. He had thrashed and screamed, probably begged, in Kader’s arms.          

Bile tickled the back of his throat. Stomach churning, Trowa twisted. Kader must have noticed something—perhaps the cold sweat beading on his forehead, or the rapid way Trowa swallowed—because he shifted back. He pulled Trowa with him, loosening his grip on Trowa’s stomach. He grunted as Trowa elbowed his way out of his arms.          

His nightmare had shifted them up the bed. A good thing, he realized, when his legs wobbled and collapsed the moment he put weight on them. Trowa caught himself on the bedpost. The drop did much more than just stretch his arms and churn his stomach. Trowa shuddered as something warm and sticky started dripping down his legs.          

Now he was really going to be sick.          

Kader sighed. He lifted Trowa from under the arms. Trowa scratched at his hands. Hissing, he let Trowa stumble upright and across the room. Trowa kept one arm tight around his heaving stomach and let the other press to whatever wall was nearest.

He didn’t need the call of “on the right.” There were only a few doors in the hallway, and only one was opened. He didn’t bother with the lights. Trowa slid to his knees in front of the toilet and retched. A strand—he refused to think of what—clung to his lips.            
Someone sighed behind him. Trowa tensed, fingers tight around the porcelain. It wasn’t the most dignified position: naked, heaving, head just far enough out of the toilet to keep his hair clean. Still, he had a decent angle to kick at Kader if he dared to come near him. He didn’t. There were no hands in his hair or on his back. No voice, low and chuckling, trying to coax him to relax. Which was good for him because Trowa wasn’t about to let himself be treated like a first date who couldn’t hold liquor.

Trowa lifted his head slightly and glanced at the door. Nizar ran a hand over his face before walking away. Groaning, he settled his cheek on his forearm.  _ Great. _ __

His legs didn’t wobble nearly as much this time when stood, flushed, and staggered to the sink. The sink was just as luxurious and artificial as the rest of the apartment, but the water was clean and cold. Trowa sighed as it ran over his hands and wrists. He bent and splashed his face before ducking further and pressing his lips to the cold stream.          

He would never drink from the faucet like that at home, or at anyone else’s house for that matter. But Kader wasn’t anyone. He would have to live with the lapse in manners.

The water settled his stomach enough that Trowa could straight. A little light from the hall came through the open bathroom door, so Trowa could unfortunately see his reflection. He didn’t look…terrible, at least. No bruises, and no blood. An odd patch of darkened skin stood out on his neck. It stung when he touched it. Trowa sighed. It was far enough down, though, that his shirt collar would cover it.

It would probably ache by the morning, but not nearly as bad as the spot between his legs.  _ Work’s going to be fun. _ __

Trowa shifted and grimaced. It was like riding a motorcycle all over again—or the brief time he tried to learn horseback riding. Of course, he hadn’t really had breasts either of those times, and he hadn’t had breasts when—          

He shook his head. Well, he was able to walk upright at least. And he could ignore the breasts. It wasn’t like they actually hurt. They would when he put the binder on, but he had had worse. Broken ribs, gun wounds, attempted suicide, those all hurt more than sex-sore breasts.

_ I should shoot myself, then. Give myself a real distraction. _ __

“You know,” Kader said when Trowa returned to the bedroom. He was balanced on an elbow, cheek on his fist and the sheet just over his hips. “I’ve been cursed and sobbed at. Some begged. I even had one lovely young lady lunge at me with a letter opener. But you are the first one who vomited after sleeping with me.”

Trowa opened his mouth and then snapped it closed. As if Kader had anything to do with it. But Trowa wasn’t going to give him opportunities to wriggle his way into his life. He would rather deal with his arrogance than his curiosity.

Kader frowned. He ran his fingers through sex-and-sleep tousled hair. Leaning over, he clicked off the bedside lamp. Patting the space beside him, he settled down onto his side. When Trowa didn’t move, Kader opened his eys and lifted his head from his arm.

“Planning on sleeping in the doorway? I don’t suggest it.”          

“No.”          

“Then come to bed.”          

Not fucking likely. “I have work.”          

“Not at midnight, you don’t. Come here.”

“I have work.”

Kader sighed. “Your dedication shames me.” Trowa grit his teeth as Kader turned the light back on and sat up. “But it would be unfair to ask Nizar to take you in now.”

Trowa had no intention of getting anywhere near that truck. “Taxi.”

“I’d never ask you to waste money like that,” Kader said. His smiled didn’t reach his eyes. “Nizar will take you back. In the morning.”

Trowa eyed the clothes still crumpled near the bed. How fast would he have to to get them, get dressed, and get out the door before Kader tackled him?  _ Too fast.  _ There was no way he was walking of here naked. Nor did he think Kader would let him, and that would probably be more painful than just sulking back into bed.

Kader shifted, making Trowa tensed. He reached for his cellphone on the side table. After playing with it, grumbling, he set it down again with a loud thunk.

“There. Alarm set for five-thirty, and I promise not to turn it off. Now come here."          

Trowa insisted to himself that he was going back because he was tired and his knees were starting to shake and that the last thing he wanted was to be carried. Lying on his side near the edge of the bed, Trowa glared at the clothes on the floor. The wrinkles would be hard to explain.          

Kader turned off the light. He wrapped his arm around Trowa’s stomach. Growling, Trowa clawed at it, the scratching increasing when Kader started to pull him back. Kader ignored him, pulling until Trowa’s back was flush against his chest. Then he had the audacity to start rubbing light circles on his stomach.

Trowa twisted. “I—”          

“Go to sleep.”          

Trowa wanted to stay away just to spite him and his presumptuous touch. Kader’s fingers moved constantly: up his stomach, down his side, over his hips. Slow. Intimate. Soothing. Trowa dug his nails into his palm, trying to stay awake and angry, but the need for sleep trailed after each gentle stroke. He knew he shouldn’t sleep. Trowa had no idea what he would dream about this time, or what would slip out. His body ached, though, and the touch, unwanted as it was, was uncommonly, disarmingly gentle. Considerate, and disgustingly so.          

The alarm didn’t wake Trowa. Lips did. Wet and slightly parted, pressing against his back. They moved slowly along Trowa’s skin. Trowa groaned around the pillow he had burrowed into during the night. Brow furrowed, he slid his arms beneath his chest. Kader, mouth never abandoning his skin, took hold of Trowa’s wrists before Trowa could push himself up. Trowa shivered, melting into the bed when Kader’s tongue cut random, wet paths across his shoulders and spine. The tongue tickled his back to Trowa’s waist, then went back up. It shifted a little and slid down again.

In far too straight a line.          

“Off,” Trowa growled, fully away. He pulled on the hands holding his wrists.

“Where did you get these,” Kader asked against Trowa’s scarred skin. He held Trowa’s hips down with his chest. “They can’t all be battle scars.”          

“Of course they can.”          

“You were too good for this many.” Kader grunted as Trowa caught him in the chin with his hip. “And you’re too sensitive about them.”          

Trowa was not sensitive. It was dead skin and nothing more. “I don’t appreciate people licking me in my sleep.”          

“Only when you’re awake, you don’t,” Kader said. The alarm buzz drowned out Trowa’s snarl. They listened to it for a moment before Kader slid off of him. He had to turn to get his phone, so he missed the confusion and fear flicker over Trowa’s face. “And now, since you do have to go to work, I can’t teach yoy to appreciate the attention. Not to worry, though. We’ll have time tonight.”          

Kader smiled at Trowa’s blank, and then black, expression.          

“I’m taking a shower.”          

Trowa was out of bed and out of the room faster than necessary. Kader didn’t try to stop him, didn’t comment, didn’t even try to stop him. He didn’t try the bathroom door once Trowa got there. That didn’t stop Trowa from locking the door or looking over his shoulder as he stepped into the shower.          

He tried not to think of Catherine’s tiny shower, or his bedroom’s average one. Or how both of them could fit rather comfortably in the glass-and-tile shower stall. He tried not to think about the reasons behind such a large shower, or a shower with a waist high metal bar. Or a shower with an overhead metal bar. Trowa glanced at the locked door again. Kader probably had a key.          

Trowa’s skin eventually turned red from the water’s heat, but the door stay closed.          

Trowa leaned against the wall, shivering. None of it made sense. Which bothered him. The alley made sense: botched job, warning to Preventers, a lesson to him. He understood that. Trowa could even see some reasoning in the exploitation. He was a Preventer and former pilot. There were all sorts of information he had access to. And even if Trowa didn’t talk, Kader could at least ensure his silence with force and threat of exposure. That made sense. Trowa understood that.          

What he didn’t understand was the pretense of concern and consideration. Kader didn’t gain anything by giving Trowa food he could comfortable eat, or accommodating—or trying to—Trowa’s sex-difficult body. Kader didn’t get anything out of giving comfort.          

And there had been comfort. There had to have been; Trowa wouldn’t have slept so well otherwise. He slid down the shower wll, arms tight over his waist. Trowa wasn’t sure how he felt about the attention and the restraint, but he knew the feeling was something other than anger, frustration, or fear. Trowa had slept. A heavy, dreamless sleep once he had gone back to bed. A Catherine’s-couch, lion-cage sleep.          

He only slept like that when he was very comfortable. Comfortable and safe.          

And that made the least amount of sense of all.

The water was almost cold when Trowa finally gave up. He wasn’t going to understand why Kader insisted on making him feel comfortable and safe, no matter how fleeting. He didn’t understand, but it didn’t change anything. Standing carefully with the help of one of the conspicuous bars, Trowa showered.          

He hesitated only once, hands twitching on his upper thighs. Trowa had never actually cleaned up afterwards before; the mercenaries never said, or showed, that it was necessary. They never gave him the time, either. Trowa eyed the soap and the detachable shower head. He flinched.  _ I’ll be fine without it. _ __

“I thought you might have drowned,” Kader said when Trowa returned. Wearing loose jeans, he looked at Trowa, wrapped up in a large towel, and chuckled. “Your clothes will be done shortly.”          

Trowa blinked. “Done what?”          

“Being ironed. You can’t go to work in something that’s been on the floor all night.”          

Trowa frowned. Kader made no sense at all.          

Nizar apparently agreed with him. He sneered at Trowa over Kader’s shoulder when he retuned with the pressed uniform. Trowa tilted his head as Kader asked Nizar something in what had to be their native language. He wondered if it was why Nizar was already wearing a full suit. Nizar scowled and thrust Trowa’s uniform into Kader’s hands. Kader watched him leave, then passed Trowa his clothes. He followed Nizar out, closing the door behind him.          

Trowa stared, towel around his shoulders and clothes in his hands, until a cold drop of water ran from his hair and down the back of his neck. He shivered, sneered, and tossed the clothes on to the bed. He yanked the towel over his body and hair before starting to dress. The binder was easier to get on than he thought it would be, but Trowa had to hold the bedpost afterwards. He struggled to catch his breath, and considered loosening it.

“Like hell.”          

Trowa buttoned his shirt. Two of the buttons wobbled between his fingers. He would have to be more careful. There were no replacements until he got home, and he wasn’t even sure how many he had at home. Probably not many.          

There was no gun holster on the dresser this time. Trowa did find a brush, though, and ran it through his hair. It was another breach of manners but he didn’t care. Kader could deal with it. He’d have to wait until he got to work to shape and product his hair. The light touch of his hair on his neck made him shiver.          

After giving himself a once over, just to make sure there were no glaring differences that could lead to questions at the office, Trowa opened the door. Kader wasn’t waiting in the hall, like he had expected. Trowa could hear him though. He moved towards the sound, pressing close to the wall out of habit.          

“He can walk,” Nizar spat when Trowa was just outside the living room. He heard the scrap of metal on metal as Nizar talked. They were probably in the kitchen.          

“He’ll freeze or get run over.”          

“Your point?”          

“Aside from the unwanted attention a dead body in this neighborhood will bring,” Kader asked. Nizar grunted and slammed something down. “He’ll know. Even if he doesn’t come back—and I assure you he is coming back—one time will be enough. He’ll know where we are, and then maybe he’ll talk. Which is exactly what you don’t want.”

Trowa swore he could Nizar grinding his teeth. “Then I’ll put a bullet through his head. I’m not taking him.”

The kitchen went silent, except for the running water and the gentle scrap of what had to be a pan. Then Trowa heard a sigh, and it was so shockingly plaintive he couldn’t stop himself from poking his head around the doorway. Kader’s shoulders drooped.            
“This is a game to you,” Kader said. Nizar turned his head slightly. “It must be, since you know how much I loathe the distance birthright has put between us. Why do you insist on making me command you? Or…” Kader paused, his lips pursed around a new thought. “Or is this some new lesson? A final lesson? Hardening my heart against my teacher and guide to make me the best possible leader.”

There was a warmth in Kader’s face that was almost childlike, and underneath that glowing adoration, there was such pathetic hurt that, if Trowa wasn’t looking at it, he would never have thought it possible. Underneath that, though, was something hard and almost cruel. Mockery in the sadly-arched eyebrows and downturned mouth.

Nizar wasn’t fooled in the slightest, either.  
  
“Someday, I will carve out those eyes and then we’ll see how well your expressions work then.”

Kader’s lips curled. “I will be more pathetic without them.” Nizar shook his head once before sighing.

“Where did I put the blindfold?”

Kader took Nizar’s place at the stove once the man had wandered off. He glanced briefly over his shoulder and then gestured Trowa to come closer with his head. Trowa frowned. He wasn’t going to skulk back around the corner, but that didn’t mean was coming closer either.

“Don’t give him a reason to forget the blindfold. He’ll improvise,” Kader warned.

Trowa wouldn’t be able to explain away a concussion or new bruising. Scowling, Trowa came and sat down at the table.          

Once Kader set down a plate of pancakes for him, Trowa realized food was exactly what he needed after yesterday. He wasn’t going to admit that it was good though. Nizar came back as when Trowa was halfway through his plate and Kader was sitting across from him with coffee. He had blindfold and folders in hand. Nizar stopped and looked at Trowa, first with surprise then with loathing. Trowa had the distinct impression he was eating the man’s breakfast and couldn’t stop himself from smiling a little around his fork.

Muttering, Nizar tossed the folders at Kader. Kader glanced at them over the rim of his coffee mug. He opened the first and scanned the report. At least, Trowa thought it was a report; he couldn’t understand the writing at all. Kader turned to Nizar, who had gone to the counter. Trowa leaned forward a little.          

Kader was from the middle east, Trowa knew that much. He couldn’t remember exactly where though. Not that it mattered; he couldn’t read Arabic or Farsi or Kurdish or the rest. There were enough numbers of the page, though—multiple digit numbers—that Trowa suspected a supply report. Or statistics. Populations possibly.          

Kader’s large hand stretched over the page. “I wouldn’t linger,” he said, with a faint smile. “Nizar tells me the roads are bad this morning.”          

Nizar gave Trowa a look over his coffee mug that suggested he would love to hit black ice, just so he could watch Trowa go through the window shield. Trowa ate the rest of his breakfast slowly.

The last piece of pancake was barely in Trowa’s mouth when the blindfold stretched over his eyes from behind. Trowa pushed back from the table and searched for Nizar’s hands. When he found them tying the thick silk at the back of his head, Trowa scratched and clawed until he got a wrist. Nizar cursed as Trowa twisted it.          

Kader chuckled. “Next time, let him finish his breakfast first.”          

Kader behaved no better. He caught Trowa by the arm when Trowa tried to yank the blindfold off. He pulled Trowa out of the chair easily. Trowa twisted in his grip, growling as Kader’s grip tightened. He pulled Trowa close. Warm breath ghosted across Trowa’s neck and for a moment, Trowa felt the rough bite of frozen asphalt. Kader’s lips caressed the shell of his ear.          

“Be good,” Kader breathed. “I’ll see you later tonight.”          

Trowa realized, as Nizar dragged him away, that he would have preferred it if Kader had tried to strangle him again.

*-----*-----*

“There you are. I was starting to worry.”          

Kader didn’t look worried. He leaned back in one of the dinette chairs, coat and tie once against tossed aside. He had a wine glass and spun it slowly between his fingers with the precision of someone bent on being irritating.

“Blame him,” Nizar sneered as he snatched up the coat. For a moment, Trowa wished he hadn’t insisted on getting the blindfold off so quickly. He would have like to take it off and strangle Nizar with it.          

Kader looked from one to the other, eyebrows arched. The intense gaze lingered on Trowa. It made the hair on his neck rise. Trowa shrugged, hoping it looked as casual as he wanted.          

“Work to do.”          

Kader blinked, and then sighed, shaking his head. “Once again, your dedication shames me—”          

Trowa’s wouldn’t necessarily call it “dedication.” More an unusual fascination with a series of distraction phone calls. It was very difficult, after all, to make a mind circling around exploitative sex and mixed feeling about it to constructive work. So instead he focused on the phone calls: Quatre’s morning complaints about the mundane paperwork he had been called in for, Duo’s afternoon rambling gossip. He had actually gotten some work done during that phone call. Duo’s chatter had been oddly calming and stabilizing.          

Heero’s phone call had not been as helpful. He had called after Duo, and the call itself had been mostly silent, except for pleasantries and Heero reminding him that he did have the car and plenty of time to pick Trowa up. Trowa had watched the phone long after Heero hung up, grumbling about Duo and snow shovels.          

So Trowa had gotten very little work done, and had stayed well past seven to try and at least finish his usual load.

“—but I really must insist this doesn’t become a habit. Dedication is noble, but not at the expense of your health.” Kader’s lips curled as he spoke. Trowa frowned. He knew it wasn’t Trowa’s health Kader was concerned about.” Now come and eat.”          

Trowa, hoping to prolong the repeat of last night as long as possible, sat stiffly beside Kader. Once again, everything within his reach was perfectly suited for his dietary needs and wants.          

He caught the sweet perfume of fruit and the hearty smell of bread. Trowa’s stomach rumbled. Sitting straight and stiff, he thought about protocol, gun maintenance, front-line first aid, slaughter houses—anything to keep from wanting the food Kader set in front of him.          

But he hadn’t made it out for lunch; Duo had been too engrossed in his own story about the grocery store to let Trowa go. He was starving. Sighing, Trowa reached for a nearby plate of vegetables, ignoring the bowl of paste beside it. Kader nudged a bowl of fruit closer to him. Trowa reached over it for bread.

They ate in silence, and a less awkward one than Trowa thought it would be. Trowa was just starting his third piece of bread and his first serving of fruit—ignore two dishes Kader pushed on him—when Kader spoke.

“I imagine it’s different than you expected,” he said, not looking up from his own eal. Trowa couldn’t stop himself from glancing at him. Of course it was. Extortionists weren’t supposed to play nice with their victims. They weren’t supposed to offer dinner or comfort or any of the other things that bothered Trowa. “Being a Preventer.”          

Trowa’s brow furrowed. He kept his mouth set in a careful line when Kader turned a smile on him. “Your patience is astounding,” he said. “I would never be able to stand such blatant disregard for my talents, were I as talented as you.”          

Trowa heard a low ringing. It built until it swallowed Kader’s voice, or rather most of it.          

“A Gundam pilot so reduced. It’s a shame. You wiped out battalions in minutes. You snuck into the intimate heart of the enemy. You gave the Earth and colonies victory, and the best gift these people offer you are is quiet days at a desk and a never-ending pile of paperwork.” Kader sipped his wine. “Maybe you like that, though. Life as a pilot had to be exhausting, especially for one so young. You might enjoy the calm mundanity of civilian life—”          

Trowa wasn’t sure when he picked it up, or when he decided that Kader’s hand needed a forked embedded in it. Suddenly, though, there was blood and cursing and a delayed scream of shook and rage as someone yanked Trowa out of the chair by the hair.            
A thick, suit-coat covered arm wrapped around his throat. Trowa twisted, ignoring the sharp pain of ripped out hair, and drove his elbow into the base of Nizar’s rib cage. Nizar doubled-over with a grunt. Kader caught Trowa’s fist in a bloody grip before it could explode into the top of Nizar’s head. Trowa swung his leg back. Kader danced away from it and into the arc of the fist he dropped. Ducking down, he caught Trowa around the waist. He lifted. Trowa gasped as he was hoisted and held over the broad shoulder.          

When Kader started walking, Trowa twisted. His heel almost made it to the bastard’s eyes. Kader caught his hand with his spare hand. Pulling it down, he wrapped his arm around Trowa’s thrashing knees.

“Put me down,” Trowa snarled. He would _not_ beat his fists against Kader’s back, but he wasn’t beneath digging his fingers into whatever skin and muscle he could reach.           

The moment they entered the bedroom, the room started spinning. Trowa caught flashes of walls and bedposts before he landed on the mattress with a grunt. He dug into the sheets. He needed distance if he was going to keep Kader from pinning him down.          

Kader didn’t touch him. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out. The door slammed shut behind him.          

Trowa waited. When Kader didn’t come back after a minute of heart-thudding silence, he sat up. The angry tension melted from his face, leaving only suspicions. That too fell away when Trowa heard nothing but voices, muffled with distance, and his own breathing. He counted a few hundred seconds, a few hundred breaths. He was nearly fidgeting when the door finally opened again.          

Kader glared at him, and the look sucked the air out of the room. Trowa swallowed. Kader closed the door quietly with a towel-bandaged hand. Trowa fisted the bedding when Kader stepped towards him.

“You owe me an explanation,” he said as he approached. Trowa’s eyes narrowed.          

“I owe you a matching knife.”          

Trowa’s head snapped to the side from the hard backhand. Heavy hands landed hard on Trowa’s shoulders. Hips followed, sliding over Trowa’s legs as Kader shoved him backwards. Trowa twisted and yanked his knees up. Kader caught them and pushed them back and open. Trowa hissed and bucked.

Kader settled between his legs, using his weight to hold Trowa’s legs down and freeing his hands enough to deal with Trowa’s fists. Trowa cursed as Kader crushed his hands against his chest. Kader leaned over him to reach for something above Trowa’s head. His throat was just close enough. Trowa lunged at it with a snarl.          

Kader pulled back with a sneer. He dragged Trowa up with him. Trowa lunged forward again, aiming for Kader’s throat and pull on the grip around his wrists. If Kader let go just a little, for just a second, he could—          

The world dimmed as cloth went up over Trowa’s head, a hand forcing fabric and buttons into Trowa’s mouth. He sputtered around them. Kader yanked his shirt further up. He twisted it, pulling Trowa’s hair as he tangled the shirt around Trowa’s arms. The buttoned collar caught against his throat. Trowa coughed.

He tumbled back onto the mattress, struggling against the improvised restraint. Kader fished his hands out of the fabric and snapped cold metal around them. Trowa twisted and pulled.  _ Pervert keeps manacles under his pillow?! _ __

Kader flipped Trowa onto his stomach and stretched out over his back. “Maybe you’d like to give me that explanation now,” he growled, grinding his hips against his ass. Trowa hissed.  _ Not. Fucking. Likely. _ __

Trowa nearly had the shirt out of his mouth when Kader shoved his face into a pillow. Trowa cursed: first Kader and then his own inability to break out or breathe. He was too focused on the one hand holding his head into the pillow to notice the other one, until it yanked his hips up and his pants down.          

Trowa froze, back curved and chest pressed into the mattress. Kader felt impossible close like this. Trowa could feel the smooth touch of his expensive suit against his knees and thighs. He could feel the man’s body heat against the sensitive skin of his genitals. Trowa swallowed and shivered.          

He had been taken from behind before. Most of the mercenaries preferred, to keep up whatever fantasies they had running through their heads. They had almost always held him up, or kept him on his knees. None of them ever pushed him down like that.            
They wouldn’t. They weren’t interested in men, and didn’t want to look at the possibility of it in Trowa’s body. The same possibility that Kader stared at without issue. His large hand rested on Trowa’s thigh, just underneath the curve of his ass. Trowa could feel his thumb, inches away from his already wet slit. It was rubbing slow circles on his skin.

He never felt so exposed.

Kader’s hand slid away from his head, somehow know the embarrassment would hold Trowa down better than any physical force. A finger glided down the back of his neck and around the first few ridges of his spine. One finger became a few, and then a hand. Kader let his hand run over the stiff material of Trowa’s binder. Trowa jolted when his fingers found the edge of it. They played at the snaps for a moment before undoing the nearest. The binder loosened.          

It couldn’t slide off because of his arms, but it hung much more loosely around Trowa’s chest. Loose enough that Trowa could feel his breasts moving. A warm hand gripped the edge of the binder and pulled it up, far enough to expose Trowa’s back. A warm hand ran down the middle of his back. Trowa’s breath hitched.          

Kader pressed his lips to the base of his spine. Trowa pulled forward to escape. Kader slid an arm around his stomach and held him still. He moved slowly, kissing along a long scar near Trowa’s waist. Trowa squirmed and arched away. Kader followed, arm pushing hard against Trowa’s stomach until he stilled.          

Kader took his time exploring the limited skin on Trowa’s back. He ignored every shift and pull Trowa made, every near-silent whine and sharp gasp that got through his grit teeth. Trowa trembled under the intense, physical scrutiny. Every inch of skin Kader touched tingled, even after he moved on.          

The kisses ended with one at the back of Trowa’s neck. Kader pulled the binder down briefly to kiss and nip at the nape of Trowa’s neck. He pressed against Trowa’s back, his crotch snug against Trowa’s ass. Trowa shuddered as Kader rocked forward.

“Tell me,” he said quietly. The words were hot against his ear. Trowa burrowed into pillow.          

Kader shifted back. He pulled the binder up again, higher this time, and gave Trowa a handful of seconds before attacking his back again.          

This time, it was his tongue that traced the first scar.

Kader went slower this time, leaving no piece of skin untouched. At the start of every scar, Kader licked a small circle at the end, and then followed it with a slow, upward pull. The tip of his tongue slid along the scar line with a surgeon’s exactness. Retracting at the end, Kader ended the examination with a kiss. Then he moved onto the next and repeated the whole torturous attention.          

Halfway up his back, Kader needed to wrap his arms around Trowa’s waist and stroke his stomach to keep him even remotely still.

Trowa heaved, biting into shirt and pillow, grabbing the chains he found attached to the manacles hard enough to mark his palms. Every inch of attention-lavished scar tissue had a memory, someone of them blessedly incomplete. The mass of faded scars in the center of his back came with the vague memory of smoke and the creaking of fire-weakened wood. Others were mundane: suture scars from bullet and knife wounds, and that one time a drill slipped from the scaffolding. But then there were the razor scars, narrow lines where the flesh had parted almost elegantly. And there were the wider gaping scars of the belt, jagged where the buckle had ripped skin from muscle and bone.          

The last scar was long, stretching from spine to shoulder. It wasn’t the nastiest of the belt scars, but they had poured vodka on it. The skin burned when Kader touched it. Trowa whimpered.          

“Tell me,” Kader said, stroking his stomach.          

If he meant the scars, Kader was going to be disappointed. Nothing would make Trowa talk about it, and certainly not when he was this close to hysterics. If he meant the knife, though.          

Kader should have known better. He couldn’t honestly have expected any different reaction. Did he actually think Trowa would sit, quiet and demure, while he flung thinly-veiled insults at him? Maybe he didn’t expect the explosive reaction Trowa had, but Kader should have expected something.          

Although to be fair, Trowa hadn’t expected himself to react quite like that. But there had just been something so infuriating about it. About hearing his own bitterness coming out of Kader’s mouth.          

Kader suddenly nipped at the scar, and Trowa forgot what he was angry about as blind panic set in.

“Stop,” he said, squirming under him. Some of the patheticness of the plea was swallowed up by the pillow.          

“Tell me and I will.” Teeth grazed the scar again. Trowa bit back a whimper.          

“It hurts.”          

Kader stopped. After a few seconds, the lightly-pressed teeth left his back. The hand on Trowa’s stomach slid around and up his side until it could carefully unearth Trowa’s head from the shirt and pillow he had buried himself in.          

The bedroom was bright and thin. Maybe it was because of the lack of oxygen, or maybe it was a response to the assault, but past the bronze-colored walls, Trowa saw the rickety scaffolding and shells of mobile suits. There were faded tent poles inside the centers of the bedposts. Trowa shifted. Grass and silk beneath his knees. Wine and blood and oil and booze in his nose. Behind him, he heard Kader breathing, and in front of him, there was the distant murmur of dining tent chatter.

Trowa tossed his head, ignoring the dull pain as he pulled out his own hair. His face itched. He tasted salt.          

There was no mistaking, though, who touched him. Kader slid a hand between Trowa’s leg and rubbed. The bedroom snapped into focus, and for about ten seconds, Trowa was thankful.

“Stop,” he said, twisting away from the hand.          

“Would you prefer the teeth?”          

Trowa let out an angry, pitiful groan. Kader released his hair. Trowa dropped back to the pillow with a grunt. Squirming, he shoved trembling arms beneath his chest and pushed. Kader grabbed his ass and squeezed, a thumb nudging the tight entrance. Trowa fell forward with a gasp.          

“Stay,” Kader said, twisting the flesh in his hand. He leaned away, and Trowa caught the sound of a nearby drawer opening. Shaking his head, Trowa squirmed, even after Kader managed to wriggle a long, thankfully-coated finger inside of him.          

His ass had never been the mercenaries’ first choice, but even if it had, Trowa doubted the experience would make the slow push and pull hurt less. He grit his teeth until he felt Kader’s hand lay flush against him, and held his breath when Kader’s finger started to move again. His breath rushed out in a gasp when the withdrawing finger circled. The tight ring of muscle barely moved at all.

“I didn’t think you could get any tighter,” Kader said when the tip of his finger brushed against the clenching hole. Trowa, panting through his nose, shivered as Kader slid his free hand between his legs again. He keened softly as Kader rubbed his wet slit and two fingers pushed back in.          

Kader did something like that every time something should have hurt. When he curled his fingers or twisted them so the fatter second knuckles caught and pulled, or nudged them so far apart Trowa was sure he could look straight inside, Kader did something to Trowa’s vagina or cock. Stroked or rubbed. Slid wet fingers along the wet folds with the perfect amount of pressure. Soon enough, Trowa was on the verge of moaning, rocking very slightly, the tight muscles around Kader’s fingers relaxing.          

“There we go,” he purred.

Trowa breathed curses into the pillow as Kader pushed in and out steadily, Trowa’s hips pushing back against his fingers whether he wanted to or not. That pleasant heat from the night before curled again in his stomach. Kader slid his fingers still deeper, nudging Trowa’s legs apart; Trowa needed only token amounts of coaxing to comply. When Kader eventually withdrew his fingers, from ass and slit, Trowa let out a noise that he only partially realized was a whine.          

Kader chuckled and patted his ass, which would have been infuriating in the pleasure wasn’t clawing up Trowa’s body. Trowa was so focused on that warm lick of arousal—and the urge to rock his hips down into the bed if Kader wasn’t going to do touch him anymore—that he didn’t notice Kader preparing himself. He didn’t notice Kader at all until thick, hard flesh rubbed against the cleft of his ass.          

Kader pushed.          

Trowa filled his mouth with pillow. Too much, much too much, even slicked with lube. Kader gripped his hips as he pushed. Trowa didn’t dare struggle. Try to force it out, or worse ripping it out with a wild squirm, would have to make it hurt more.          

“Longer next time, fuck you’re tight,” Kader growled.          

“Take it out!”          

“Relax, like you did with the fingers.”          

“Out!”

There were tears in his scream as Kader eased his hips forward. “Relax,” he said again.          

If Trowa could just stay still, it might have been okay. Kader would have had a free hand then to stroke him with. But he couldn’t, so Kader held his shaking hips with both hands and pushed, slow but constant. Trowa almost begged for the distracting touch. A twist, a rub, something. Anything. Kader didn’t trust him not to arch forward, twist sideways, or move some other damaging way, so he held tight.

Finally, the forward pressure stopped. Warm flesh pressed against the backs of Trowa’s thighs. Kader stroked Trowa’s sides and then around to his heaving stomach. Trowa flinched. He could feel it, the head of him. He swore he could feel it. It was there, poking at his intestines. When Kader pushed again, it would rip through him. Trowa waited, trembling.

Kader didn’t move. Instead, he knelt behind Trowa and stroked his trembling skin. Slowly at first, with just his fingertips, up and down his ribs. Then he pressed his fingers into Trowa’s skin and circled comfortingly down Trowa’s sides. He went up again with the pads of his fingers, then circles down with his whole hand.          

Eventually, Trowa’s breathing evened. The cold sweat beading along his spine dried, and the pain and sense of  _ fullness  _ lessened. Kader stroked his sides one more time before returning his hands to Trowa’s hips. Trowa trembled between them. When Kader withdrew and returned, slowly, letting Trowa stretch around him, the absolute fullness and fear didn’t return.

That didn’t mean it felt good, though.          

Kader thrust slowly, moving an inch, then two, three, of cock out before pushing back in. His tight grip on Trowa’s hips kept Trowa from rocking either into or away. Trowa fisted the chains, counting each shallow thrust with a squeeze and each gained inch with a groan.          

His knees started to hurt. Trowa shifted a little, hips moving in Kader’s hands. The head scrapped against something. Trowa groaned, shuddering. Kader leaned over him, reaching between Trowa’s legs again. He rolled Trowa’s small cock between forefinger and thumb before tracing his fingers along his slit. Trowa twisted as Kader rolled his hips and pressed his fingers into his wet opening. The heat flared and died. Trowa squirmed, and then finally rocked.

He whined.          

Kader pulled out until the head was stretching the skin of his entrance. He snapped his hips forward. Trowa supposed it should have hurt, inches of thick flesh plunging back into his bowels with enough force to push him forward a few inches. There was probably blood. But while the head slammed back in, Kader manipulated the folds with his fingers and there was while pleasure. Before Trowa had enough air in his lungs to moan, Kader had pulled out and slammed back in.

On the third thrust, Trowa choked out a scream.          

Trowa gripped the chains, which rattled and cut into his palms as Kader thrust into him hard and fast. Distantly he heard the creak of the bed and the slap of skin from Kader’s cock and thighs. He heard moans, felt them rising out of his chest and rumbling out of Kader to shudder down his back.

He should have been angry. Hell, Trowa should have been embarrassed. But he wasn’t. Not right then, when there was pleasure he hadn’t known lancing through him. Not when his head was the quietest it had been in years.

Pleasure wasn’t meant for him, but he would enjoy it while he had it for the moment. There would be time for anger later. There would be time for loathing when his head was no longer white and quiet.

Trowa’s hands, wet with blood from scratches, slipped on the chains. Kader pulled him up as much as they allowed. Thrusting hard, he buried his teeth into the head of the scar on Trowa’s shoulder. Trowa arched with a cry, and the last hold he had broke.

*-----*-----*

Maybe it was because Trowa looked that miserable—which tended to happen after sitting on a sore ass, mentally kicking himself, for nine hours—but Sunday night, after a dinner where there wasn’t a fork or knife in sight, Kader let him sleep.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys celebrate the end of the year, and Heero asks the hard question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More exploitation. This is going to be a recurring warning.

 

Quatre Raberba Winner could turn champagne into a lethal weapon.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, trying once again to get at the mess of glass, water, and partially-dead petals on the floor. Wufei shooed him away with the broom. Undeterred, Quatre turned to Trowa, who was still trying to soak water from his sweater with a towel.       
“It was an accident,” Trowa said before Quatre opened his mouth. Duo grinned.          

“But what an accident. We should have armed you with a wine cellar.”          

Quatre kicked at him. Heero pulled Duo out of range by the braid and shoved a dustpan in his hands.          

Trowa had to admit—silently, of course, because between Quatre’s guilt and Duo’s ego, they would never hear the end of it—that Duo had a point. Quatre was already an impeccable shot, but the cork had been a thing of morbid beauty. If Trowa had been more distracted, it would have gone straight into his throat.          

If he had been less distracted, he would have spun away instead of dropping down, and his sweater wouldn’t be soaked.

Quatre was still apologizing, and avoiding play swipes from Wufei and his brook, so no one noticed how Trowa started wringing the edge of his sweater like a certain bastard’s thick neck.          

“Stop,” Wufei finally said, firm but gentle. Quatre frowned. Wufei leaned on the top of the broom. “It was an accident, and you can’t really apologize for accidents. Besides, I wasn’t particularly fond of the ugly thing, anyway.”          

“That ugly thing,” Zechs said as he came from their bedroom, “was a birthday gift from my sister, thank you very much.”

“One which had a perfectly appropriate place in the closet until she visited last week,” Wufei replied.          

Zechs frowned, playful, like it was an old argument. “Only one person is allowed to call my sister’s gifts ‘ugly’.”          

“I do believe I heard you mutter that once or twice, or a dozen times.” Zechs rolled his eyes. Turning away, he handed a bundle of cloth to Trowa.

“Way to encourage the addition of color,” Duo said after Trowa shook out the black turtleneck; considering Duo’s wardrobe was eighty-percent some shade of black, he found that amusing. “A holiday party, and you give him black.”

“It’s perfect for a New Year’s Eve party,” Zechs said. Duo snorted. “Think of it as a little black dress if it makes you feel better.”          

The comment was met with horrible silence. The cheering from the clips of global and colony celebrations on the television turned hollow and tinny and weren’t nearly enough to make the sudden stop of everything less awkward. Wufei turned and glared pointedly at Zechs, hands tight around the broom handle. Zechs broke eye contact, swallowing and finding a piece of glass still on the floor profoundly interesting. Duo glanced at Heero, his cheek dipping where he chewed it. Heero didn’t return the look, looking at a distant point with his expression set in an almost personal offense. He shifted every so often closer to the space between Trowa and Zechs.          

Quatre just stared, throat working as he swallowed.          

Trowa had promised himself tonight would be as normal as possible, so he scoffed.          

“If I wanted a little black dress, I’d ask you to take one of them out of your closet, thanks.”          

Heero reacted first, choking on badly-suppressed laughter. Wufei snort, leaning on the broom handle as his shoulders shook. Duo and Quatre actually laughed. Zechs blinked. Satisfied the room was once again as relaxed as it could be, at Zechs’ expense, Trowa headed to the bathroom.

He didn’t turn the light on right away. Closing the door, Trowa leaned back against it, listening to Zechs threaten to make Duo a new ice sculpture—“I refuse to keep anything that ugly in our front yard,” Wufei snorted—while Quatre and Heero laughed. Trowa smiled a little at the mirth drifting through the door.

_ Keep it from getting awkward.  _ He promised himself he would. None of them could handle anymore awkwardness, and since it came from Trow and his body and his willingness to ignore their unwillingness to talk about it, it was up to him to keep things normal. If it was possible. They deserved that, or at least an attempt. Even Zechs, although right now Trowa wanted to stuff the turtleneck down his throat.

Trowa turned on the overhead light, illuminating the off-white walls and delicate tiling. There was a porcelain sink with ceramic counter and metal fixtures. They all needed some cleaning. The glass shower stall was narrow.

He sighed. Trowa hadn’t realized how much he missed unadorned necessities. There were touches here and there of the couple’s distinct personality: a half-hidden incense burner, a subtle dusting of silver in the paint. But these were minor and tasteful and ultimately ignorable. Nothing demanded his attention and he felt like he could use the bathroom without feeling overwhelmed and a little sick.          

He certainly hadn’t been able to appreciate his own practical bathroom recently. Not when he spent all of five minutes taking a cold shower and brushing his teeth because, once again, he had come home too late and too tired for anything but sleep. And Kader’s penthouse had nothing practical within a mile of it, and the man seemed dead set on keeping it that way.          

Trowa tossed the turtleneck onto the toilet set and turned on the water. Already soaked, he wasn’t careful about scrubbing his face, although he couldn’t come out with his too red. Not if he wanted to keep them happy and ignorant. Cold water did wonders for anger. Scrubbing did not.

_ A roll in the snow might, but they’d notice that. _ __

He wouldn’t need an icy dowsing, or clenching teeth or bit tongue, if he could just stop thinking about Kader. Unfortunately, Trowa couldn’t. It was impossible; Kader had seen to that. The bastard seem to like Trowa’s reaction, including dodging silverware, and he got some perverted pleasure out of keeping Trowa off-balanced. There couldn’t be any other explanation for the food and the blindfold, the forcing and the stroking, the—          

The phone in Trowa’s back pocket vibrated suddenly in an irritating, familiar rhythm.          

\--the phone calls.          

It was Kader. Trowa had left his own cell phone in the pocket of his coat. Sneering, Trowa tossed the towel onto the sink counter. He considered, for less than twenty second, just throwing the damn thing out the window. Or into the toilet.          

“What,” he growled when he finally answered it.          

Trowa could almost hear the grin stretching Kader’s mouth. “I think you enjoyed that turn over the back of the couch more than you’d like to admit.”          

Trowa blushed. He had ignored Kader once in the whole three weeks of consecutive work, and Kader hadn’t taken it well. He greeted Trowa that night with a tsk and a slap on the ass hard enough to make Trowa yelp. It didn’t matter that Trowa had been buried so deep in his work that he hadn’t even gotten lunch. Trowa had “responsibilities,” and Kader wouldn’t abide blatant laziness.          

At the time, Trowa could only slap Kader across the face. Which ended up hurting him more than Kader. He only got a couple of solid hits in before Kader managed to manhandle him over the back of the couch. The spanking hurt; Nizar was going to bitch about the bite marks he left in the leather forever.          

Trowa had hurt for days. There was nothing he could do that didn’t aggravate his hand-sore ass, save lying on his stomach. And he just didn’t have the time for that. Trowa had forced himself to sit and stand without grimacing or squirming. He had no choice; there was no excuse or explanation that wouldn’t attract Heero’s frustrated suspicion and attach him to Trowa’s hip.          

Not wanting to give Kader anything remotely close to a reason for a second round, Trowa swallowed the anger and embarrassment.

“What is it,” he asked, voice so neutral it bordered mechanical.          

“Passable, but I admit, I expected you to be happy to hear from me, all things considered.”          

Trowa wondered what he meant: happy he had left Trowa alone since last weekend—and unless he wanted Preventers breathing down his neck, he needed to leave Trowa alone enough to go home—or that on his first weekend free, he had let Trowa be dragged off to Wufei and Zechs’ small New Year’s Party.          

Of course, if he had said no, then Kader would have Heero breathing down his neck. With a gun. Eventually.          

Still, that didn’t stop Trowa from wondering why he let him. Wearing Heero down to the point where Nizar could put a bullet in his skull would have been messy and difficult, but theoretically possible. Kader hadn’t even tried yet.          

“Expecting a thank you,” Trowa asked.          

“That would be foolish of me, considering how bad you are with your words.” Kader paused. “Where are you?”          

Trowa ground his teeth. “You know where I am.”          

“Not the particulars, but you know I could. It would only take a minute. Of course, I might have to register the coordinates in the targeting system first.”          

“The bathroom,” Trowa said grudgingly.          

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? Get undressed.”          

Trowa blinked slowly. “Excuse me?”          

“Get undressed,” Kader repeatedly, slowly. “Or just your jeans if you insist on being difficult.”

“Are you insane?”          

“No, I’m getting my thank you.”          

_How? It’s not like you can see me._ “I’m in their bathroom,” he hissed.          

“I’m aware. Undress. Now.”

Trowa glanced back at the door. The laughter and chatter had quieted; cleanup must be finished and everyone back in the living room with champagne and the last servings of Wufei’s exquisite dinner. But Trowa shouldn’t assume. Couldn’t be sure. He had been in the bathroom far too long already. Someone, hopefully Quatre but probably Wufei or worse Duo or Heero, would come knocking. Soon.          

And unless they had gotten down the list of minor repairs the house still needed, the bathroom lock was still broken.          

“No.”          

“You really are just itching for another spanking, aren’t you?”          

Trowa gripped the sink. “Not here, not now.”          

“It’s cute how you think you have a choice.”

There was a creak in the hall. “Later. Whenever. Please.”          

Kader was silent. Trowa flinched; he didn’t think he sounded that desperate. He swallowed as he caught the low drumming of thoughtful fingers. It was not the full sound of skin and bone on wood or cushion. Trowa glanced towards the frosted window, only now really wondering where Kader was.

“Are you staying there tonight?”

It would be a late start, but Quatre still had work tomorrow. “No.”

“2 A.M. then, and pray you’re home by them. I won’t care if you’re not.”

Kader hung up without his usual leering farewell. Trowa tucked the phone back into his pocket with a shaky sigh, doing his best not to imagine what the man’s obvious irritation would mean later. Trowa wriggled out of his wet sweater, wrung most of the remaining water out of it and then draped it over the shower door. He tugged on the borrowed the sweater, shoving the slightly too-long sleeves up to his elbows. At least it was thick enough and loose enough to hide the binder.

“Took you long enough, we were worried you got lost,” Duo said, handing him champagne when he came back to the living room.

“Sorry for needing the necessities.”          

“Accepted but only because it’s Christmas.”          

“Get a calendar.”          

“Oh right, ‘the Christmas season.’ That lasts until the tree hits the curb.”          

“Which will be tomorrow because I’m tired of sniffling,” Trowa said.

“People are not allergic to pine trees, just pine sap.”

“Which is why you’re dragging it to the curb tomorrow,” Heero said from the couch.          

Duo smiled and tapped his glass against Trowa’s. “Small price to pay for getting a real one.”          

Heero and Trowa liked Christmas trees, for the most part. They were pretty and Trowa was mostly sure that they did actually smell amazing like Duo claimed. But Trowa couldn’t actually smell all that much with it in the house. And the tree was surprisingly messy, dropping needles since the moment it had come through door. On the days when his allergies were particularly bad, Trowa just didn’t understand how a slowly dying tree covered in shiny baubles and draped in too many lights made the holiday better.          

Except it had something to do with that Christmas spirit thing Duo always talked about.          

There was a definite change in the house when the tree was there, and once they solved the small issue of Heero not being able to touch the tree, or anything that had touched it (including Duo), it was a pleasant addition. Even Heero thought so, although he threatened to burn it at least once a week. Trowa had caught him more than once smiling as he watched Duo fuss and fret over the tree, the usual lines in his face oddly relaxed in the light of Duo’s good mood.          

“You should have gotten a fake one,” Zechs said from his place on the arm of Wufei’s chair.          

“Oh, like your dinky ceramic one? I’d rather not have any tree,” Duo snorted, planting himself between Quatre and Heero on the couch.          

“That can be arranged,” Heero said.

“You like it.”          

“Hardly.”          

“Ceramic is tasteful,” Zechs said.          

“It’s not Christmas.”          

“I think it’s fine, considering it’s a courtesy ornament for two irritating people,” Wufei said.

“I’m surprised Relena didn’t drag one over for you two,” Duo said.          

“I’m surprised she didn’t somehow rope you into doing it,” Wufei muttered.          

“Heero wouldn’t let us borrow the car,” Duo said shrugging.

Quatre sighed. Leaning his head back, he smiled up at Trowa, who had drifted over when he decided that hovering behind the couch was less awkward than hovering by the wall.          

“Won’t be long now,” he said. Trowa wasn’t sure whether Quatre was referring to midnight or an inevitable argument. Either way he nodded.          

Quatre’s smile widened, although it still seemed strained. His eyes moved over Trowa’s face, fixating on something after a moment. Trowa wasn’t sure what it was, but it made Quatre rather unhappy. He sat up suddenly and took a long swig of his champagne. Duo refilled his glass without comment.          

Trowa did his best not to sigh as the silence crept back. After a while, he looked toward the TV; there was only so much rustling of fabric and creaking cushions he could take. Boring broadcasts of global celebrations—and occasional idiocy—were at least a little better than seeing bland, worried, or worse angry and confused, faces.          

He was about to comment on the dress, or lack thereof, some celebrators preferred when Duo leaned forward.          

“Ah, that’s where I want to go,” he said, leaning his chin in his hand. Quatre tilted his head.          

“Hawaii?”          

“Yeah man, look at that.”          

Heero looked, right when the screen switched from white sand and blue water to tanned breasts and chests. He snorted.          

“Should I be worried?”          

“The sun, the sand.”          

“Sand’s not that impressive,” Quatre said. “Trust me.”          

“The surf.”          

“You’ve never been near a surfboard,” Wufei said.          

“I can learn.”

“Just don’t expect me to drag your drowned ass out of the water.”          

“I won’t. I’ve got him,” he said, laying his head on Heero’s shoulder. “You’d fish me out, right?” Heero turned his glass slowly between his fingers. “Right?” Heero took a long, slow drink, the corners of his mouth twitching up.          

Wufei chuckled. “Might want to stay out of the water.”

            
“At least Heero can swim.”

Trowa relaxed as the conversation turned toward familiar teasing and talk of the future. He wondered, while Heero assure Duo that he would give up his guns before he got on a surfboard, if Catherine would be surprised. She always assumed—because Trowa would never tell her—that they talked about the war. Missions and victories, trials and scars. “Relieved the glory days” as it were, and the amount of disgust in her voice had openly surprised him. She would never forgive the institutions of war, and certainly not those that had recruited children to their cause.          

But they rarely talked about the past. Maybe it was because they were young, but they never spoke of the war, and certainly nothing earlier than that. They talked about now: work and cars and the interesting, or irritating, habits of people. They talked about later: places to go and things to learn or things to make.

The past came up only when one of them was having one of those posttraumatic stress disorder moments the Preventer psychiatrist had warned them about. Talking through whatever set them off usually helped Quatre, and occasionally Duo. Those conversations, though, were blessedly rare.          

If Trowa hadn’t learned to wake up silently, nightmare or not, they probably wouldn’t be.          

Trowa blinked as Duo let out a snort. He tilted his head and glanced at the television, wondering what he missed. They were in Latin America now, watching more excited revelers.          

“I am not going to England,” Duo grumbled. Trowa raised an eyebrow. “Ever. Islands aren’t meant to be cold.”

Quatre folded his arms. “Well I’m not baking in Hawaii.”          

“You lived in the desert.”          

“Inside or underground. You were there, remember?”          

“Come on, it’ll be good for you.”          

“Peeling skin is not good for you.”          

“You could use a little color.”          

“And you couldn’t?”          

“I definitely could, which is why we should hit the beach.”

“Not a chance.:          

“One minute,” Heero said, nodding to the countdown on the upper right of the screen. Duo and Quatre stopped mid-sentence.

The camera was focused on the screaming, cheering crowd pack into New York City. Trowa didn’t know how the city had kept its “pride of place” as the premiere spot for the new year. He suspected it was mostly a sense of tradition; the reconstruction efforts hadn’t been as impressive as some other cities. But tradition was a powerful thing, overwhelming even common sense. Because cramming thousands of people into an area of a few city blocks, the entrances of which were so congested as to make rescue efforts impossible in the event of disaster, was total nonsense. He would never be caught dead in a place like that.

Considering his current position though, Trowa supposed he should be a little more careful with “never” statements like that.          

The New Year ball, gaudy as ever, began its slow descent. The clock at the base of it ticked off the remaining seconds. A low chanting began, growing lower as the final ten approached, until the rolling mass of revelers screamed out of the numbers.          

Ten. Nine. Eight. Everyone in the living room shifted, setting glasses on the floor or coffee table. Out of harm’s way.          

Seven. Six. Five. Wufei leaned forward.          

Four. Three. Two. Quatre gripped the cushion under him.          

Two. _One_.           

The crowd on television erupted. Fireworks whizzed and banged outside. Screams of “Happy New Year” pierced the walls and bulletproof glass. They barely heard it.          

Wufei hid his face in his hands, tears dripping down between his fingers. Zechs leaned over him, rubbing slow circles on his back. Wufei shivered but didn’t move away. Duo had collapsed into the couch. Trowa caught the tears in his eyes before Duo rolled onto his side and buried his face in Heero’s shoulder. Heero rest his chin on Duo’s hair, blank-faced but swallowing hard and fast. Quatre rested his forehead on the couch arm.          

Trowa didn’t move. He couldn’t, not until—          

The music came from the television first, and then the voices outside joined a few seconds off. “ _Should old acquaintances be forgot._ ”          

Trowa closed his eyes against the tears, running a hand over his mouth.          

Another year over. Another year without Gundams, a year when they didn’t have to sleep on the ground or in a cockpit for days on end. Another year when they hadn’t been huddled in a coat and blanket, if they were lucky, eyes glued to the sight or the computer, waiting. Another year when they didn’t have to wonder if fifteen, sixteen, seventeen was too young to die.          

Another year without blood and the curiosity that came with nameless corpses.

No lingering seconds between life and death.

No training until bones broke and the body begged for sleep.

Another year when they had been safe and warm almost every day. Jobs they could take credit for. Roofs over their heads. Food that didn’t taste like tin.          

Another year as friends first, then allies.          

Quatre shifted first. He lifted his head and Trowa shuddered at the intense relief and choking griefy shining out of those watery blue eyes. Leaning forward, Trowa snatched the champagne bottle from the table. He nearly caught Heero in the nose with it. Quatre reached for his glass.          

Heero blinked slowly and then let out a long, low sigh. He murmured against Duo’s hair, nudging him lightly with his chin. Duo squeezed his shoulders. Swallowing, Trowa killed Quatre’s glass. He trembled, and champagne dribbled down the side of the glass.          

Zechs leaned down and kissed the back of Wufei’s neck. Sighing, Wufei sat up, turned, and smiled softly at him.          

Quatre raised his glass. “Happy New Year,” he murmured, eyes still glittering. Trowa felt the burn at his own again. They touched glasses, but the glass rang clumsily.

*-----*-----*

“Look on the bright side, maybe he’ll take a sick day.”          

Heero glared at Duo as he helped Trowa half-drag, half-carry Quatre out of the backseat. Quatre groaned and swatted at them before collapsing against Heero’s chest.          

“I can do it,” he slurred.          

“Shut up,” Heero said, not unkindly.          

Trowa climbed out of the backseat slowly. The gravel shifted noisily beneath his feet as he lost and then caught his balance. They should have been more careful with the alcohol.          

Duo had recovered first, and made up for the momentary emotional plummet with almost uncharacteristic excitement. They had all gotten swept up into it. Wufei and Zechs’ liquor cabinet was considerably emptier by the time one-thirty in the morning rolled around, which was around the time Quatre and Duo’s swaying got really bad. Thankfully the ride home was short and Heero metabolized alcohol too quickly for intoxication.          

“Alright alright, let me help,” Duo sighed.          

“Unlock the door, then we’ll talk about you helping.”

Duo dropped the key twice, and then tried unlocking the door with the wrong end of it. Heero sighed.          

“Get the door, Trowa. Please.”          

“Hey, I can—”

“Just shut up.”          

Somewhere between the front door and the stairs, Trowa ended up with half-conscious Quatre. He didn’t remember exactly when the trade-off happened, but he suspected it was a little after Duo tripped over the coffee table. Trowa decided, while the two of them argued about Duo being carried upstairs—“If I have to lug you up like a carpet, I will.”—that going up first was a good idea. He didn’t want to be behind them if Duo decided to put Heero’s threat to the test.          

Quatre groaned as Trowa adjusted his grip. He bent, hooking an arm beneath Quatre’s knees. He told himself it was the alcohol, and only the alcohol, that had him stumbling a little as Quatre rocked back into his chest. Trowa took the stairs carefully.

He was at Quatre’s bedroom by the time Heero and Duo had stopped arguing long enough to start up the stairs. Quatre hadn’t stirred at all, so Trowa didn’t worry about waking him as he shifted Quatre in his arms to get the door.

Quatre’s room was dark, but Trowa knew that Quatre had made his bed. Quatre never skipped that part of his morning routine. Trowa set him carefully in the center of the bed before pulling back the duvet. He paused before reaching for the sheet. Ever tidy, Quatre would probably not appreciate shoes in his bed. Of course, if Trowa took off his shoes, he should probably take care of the rest of him. Trowa’s eyes slid slowly over Quatre. Somewhere, he heard the echo of that breathy, needy sigh.

The clothes weren’t overly nice. Quatre wouldn’t be bothered by sleeping in them just this once.          

Trowa took his time taking Quatre shoes off. He needed to stay asleep. When he was pulling the sheet over Quatre’s chest, though, Trowa caught the glimmer of eyes in the dark. There was rustling, and then a hand reached out for him from the dark.

Trowa stood, bent over him, the warm hand settling against the curve of his cheek. It trembled slightly. Quatre’s thumb swept slowly over his cheek.

_ It isn’t me.  _ He could barely see Quatre’s face, inches from his own. Quatre’s eyes caught the faint light from the clock and the hall, but even with a gun to his head, Trowa’s wouldn’t have been able to tell the color of his eyes—if he hadn’t already known they were that soft share of blue. Bent over like this, he was probably around Heero’s height. Their hair, in the right light, could look similar in color.

In the dark, they could be brothers. And if by some miracle Quatre could see in the dark, he was drunk enough to make the mistake.          

Trowa turned into the palm. The guilt was nauseating.          

Heero met Trowa in the hall, after the hand had collapsed to the bed under its own drunken stupor and Trowa had managed to tuck Quatre fully into bed. Trowa’s hand itched to cover his cheek, as if there was a stain to hide from him.          

“Thanks,” Heero said softly. Trowa nodded. “You alright?”          

Trowa opened his mouth. He shut it when he heard a not-so-distant thump. Heero cursed.          

“Probably better than Duo,” he said.

“I’ll kill him.”

“He might have beat you to it. Help him get back in bed.”          

Heero sighed but nodded. “Good night, sleep well Trowa.”          

_Not likely._ “You too. Night.”          

Trowa kept a hand to the wall as he staggered downstairs. The steps shifted under him, but he was drunk. He should expect that. The bitterness and the guilt knotting his stomach had nothing to do with it. Trowa tripped before opening and closing his own door harder and than necessary. He swallowed, back pressed back against the door.          

He waited. The ceiling creaked, the sound shifted across the room. Not down, but toward the stairs. Trowa watched the ceiling, imagining cautious feet moving from one dark bedroom, one dark bed, to the other.

Trowa ripped off his coat and threw it. It landed on the bed, followed by the second cell phone. It bounced once, and then immediately started vibrating.          

He ran a hand over his face before glancing at the clock. Did Kader think a five-minute leeway was impressive? He sneered at the phone, buzzing so incessantly it was starting to move along the bed. Trowa snatched it up.          

“No hello,” Kader asked after half a minute of angry silence passed. Trowa didn’t even growl.          

“Fine. I hope now’s a good time for you,” he said, sounding entirely unconcerned. “There’s a bathroom near you. Get in it.”          

Trowa considered staying exactly where he was, perched on the edge of his bed. It wasn’t like Kader could see him, except maybe he could. Kader had already proven he could damn well most of what he pleased.          

He got off the bed and stomped to his bathroom. He wondered what difference location could make in whatever Kader was plotting, until the overhead light was on. The frosted glass over the bulb threw soft light across the bathroom and fixtures tile. Trowa watched his reflection grip the door frame.          

“By the sink,” Kader said. Trowa moved stiffly. He stood in front of the mirror, watching his nostrils flare and his chest strain against the binder as he breathed sharp and quick. He wanted to kick himself for being so out of control, but Trowa was sure that if he unlocked his knees to do it, he would end up on the floor.          

“Do not put down the phone. Jeans off.”          

Undressing one-handed was not a skill Trowa had really developed. He growled low in his throat as his jeans struggled against him. The button of his fly slipped through his fingers and the denim clung to his hips as he yanked on one leg and then the other.          

“Sounds like you might need a new pair soon. May I suggest something a little less form fitting next time?”          

“No.”          

“It’s cute how you keep thinking you get a say. Kick them away.” Since he was imagining they were Kader’s head, the jeans got good distance. They landed against the base of the toilet. “What do you think?”          

Trowa sneered at the crumpled denim.

“Trowa.”          

Maybe if he stared at them long enough, they would burst into flame. Or they would pop up and run around the room because nothing short of shock or force was going to make him do it.

“Look at the damn mirror.”

Kader wasn’t in the room. He probably wasn’t even near the house; he couldn’t be. There was nothing he could do to make Trowa obey. Except growl in that low voice: the one colored with the faintest suggestions of cruelty, the one that promised pain and the thing Trowa refused to acknowledge or name. Trowa shuddered, as if hot breath and not hard plastic caressed his ear. Even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to look away, Trowa glanced at the mirror.          

He had shoved the turtleneck up his chest to attack the button and zipper of his jeans. It had slithered back down and settled, wrinkled and crooked on his waist. Trowa saw his slightly rounded hips; the finger-shaped bruises had finally faded. He traced the curves of his pelvic bones with his eyes, all the way down to the patch of auburn hair. It had his abdomen look almost milky white. Then he looked further still. The scrutiny churned his stomach.          

“What do you think,” Kader asked again.          

Trowa gripped the phone as his brain started to spin, supplying him with too-vivid images of his small slit, glistening with the start of arousal because he was either that weak or that perverted.          

“I hate you.”

*-----*-----*

“We need to talk.”

Heero must have been expecting Trowa to jolt because he didn’t even raise an eyebrow when Trowa twitched hard and scratched a long, black line across a report. Trowa assume Heero thought it was from reluctance about some long overdue conversation. That suited Trowa just fine; it meant he didn’t have to come up with a reasonable explanation for the reaction.          

He really didn’t think “distracted by memories of masturbating on the bathroom floor” counted as reasonable.

Trowa turned in his chair, a carefully neutral expression on his face. “All right,” he said.          

Heero shifted his weight enough to let Trowa know that he hadn’t been expecting that answer. “Have you gotten lunch yet,” Heero asked. Trowa shook his head. “The place you like is close.”          

“Less than five. Across the street, little bit down.”          

“Let’s go.”          

Heero already had his jacked on, his hands shoved into the pockets. It was unzippered though. Trowa could refuse the invitation. He could go back to work, and Heero would go back to his desk. He would slip off his coat and drape it over his chair before going to the cafeteria. No hard feelings. Matter closed, for now.          

But expressions of thoughtfulness were rare from Heero and, Trowa suspected, sometimes difficult. He was flattered, to be honest.

Which made Trowa wonder if someone had give Heero the idea. “What about Duo?”          

Heero snorted. “Duo has a report that he damn well better finish before Une decides his head would look nice on her wall.”          

Satisfied, Trowa modded. He pushed back from his desk. Heero was already heading for the stairwell. Trowa grabbed his coat and followed, swinging it about his shoulders. He paused at the door, despite hearing Heero a few flights down. Duo was at Heero’s desk, running a hand through his hair. He looked around, as if expecting Heero to pop his head out of a drawer. Frowning a little, Trowa headed into the stairwell.          

Heero waited for him at the bottom of the stairs, face more relaxed. He walked beside Trowa through the cold parking garage at a somewhat less-thank-purposeful pace. The tension in his shoulders eased and his hands moved ever so slightly out of his pockets.          

Lying was not beneath Heero, but it bothered him. Whatever he wanted to talk about, though, it was something he wanted Duo far away from. So far away that he not only lied but essentially bolted. It piqued Trowa’s interest.          

There was no snow today, only a hard and biting wind. Neither of them waited for the crosswalk. Heero followed Trowa as he ran lightly across the partially-frozen asphalt at the first available moment, and then down the more thoroughly-frozen sidewalk. The wind snapped at the café door shut behind them.

The café was warm from the ovens and the press of bodies. Trowa stayed near the door for a moment, feeling Heero tighten beside him. He came here often enough that the number of people—the number of potential enemies—didn’t register anymore. Trowa waited patiently as Heero calculated, analyzed, and decided upon the safety of the place. When he found nothing threatening, he followed Trowa to a corner table.          

He arched an eyebrow when Trowa tossed his coat on the chair.

“Maybe you didn’t notice, but it’s a little busy,” he said, smiling some. “Unless you want to eat standing, claim your seat.”          

Heero grunted but followed his example. He took a moment to observe his surroundings: the brightly colored walls and tables, the equally brightly colored lamps and knick knacks.          

“I hope their owner isn’t also the cook,” he muttered.          

Trowa shrugged. “Food’s good even if the décor isn’t. Besides, I usually eat at my desk.”          

“True.”          

The crowd was thicker than usual today, so Heero waited at the table while Trowa ordered his lunch. Waiting would also give Heero time to think of something to eat and reach the same conclusion that Trowa had months ago: the likelihood of anyone being a threat to them was under one perfect because it was just bad business to purposefully poison a customer.          

“That is not a peanut butter sandwich,” Heero commented when Trowa returned. He eyed the green bundle on Trowa’s plate curiously.          

“It’s a spinach wrap,” Trowa said. “Spinach, lettuce, tomato, mozzarella, mushrooms. It’s popular and I usually come at the wrong time and miss it. Your turn.”          

Since it wasn’t a hot meal, Trowa waited for Heero. He blinked when Heero returned with a spinach wrap, but said nothing. Trowa picked up his wrap and bit into it, enjoying the flavors and textures. Heero eyed his for a moment, and Trowa’s hands, before copying. His first bite was tentative, but then his eyes widened some. The next bite was much bigger.          

Trowa wanted to smile but didn’t.          

Quatre, and probably Duo, would never be so clever but underhanded: Quatre because underhanded tactics should never be used with friends, Duo because while he was painfully clever it was not this kind of clever. And this was clever. Making so many small gestures, being so considerate. It made the receiver sick to the stomach to think about denying them anything, undermining that generosity with something so callous as refusing to tell them anything.          

Clever. Singleminded. Heero at his best.          

Trowa knew he was jumping to conclusion, and he hoped it was because there was someone in his life right now that was obviously being so underhanded. This was Heero, after all, who had demanded of himself a quest of redemption, who quietly considered everyone’s needs, who willingly put his life on the line without asking anything back.

But this was also Heero, who would do whatever necessary to achieve an end. Good or bad consequences. And for someone who said he wasn’t very good with emotions, he was surprisingly adept at twisting them.          

If that was he was actually doing, Quatre and Duo would murder him.          

“Kind of loud in here,” Heero said after a moment. He tried to make it casual, pushing his plate away and leaning back to observe. Trowa had known Heero for years, though, and he saw the impatience and anxiety in the scrape of the plate over the table and how tightly Heero pressed his arms over his chest.          

He shrugged. “Didn’t really notice,” he said between bites.          

Heero nodded, waiting for him to finish. Trowa took this time, more than will to sit in the noise and the heat, because the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He was not going to be guilted.          

“Grab a drink to go,” Heero asked eventually.

He knew he should say no. Trowa was allowed. That was the risk that came with Heero’s strategy. Trowa could doom them both to twenty minutes of awkward and uncomfortable silence with the right answer. He should. It would be an appropriate punishment.          

“Sure,” Trowa said.          

Drinks took much less time. They found themselves outside and shivering sooner than they had hoped. Heero headed into the wind, walking away from headquarters and clutching his coffee cup with both hands. Trowa followed him with his tea. After a few steps, he almost wished they had stayed in the café. With the wind cold and howling, Trowa wasn’t sure he wanted to unlock his jaw for anything.          

They hadn’t gone far when Heero ducked into the stone entryway of another skyscraper. It was blessedly quieter here, with the wind just whistling over the edges. Unfortunately it wasn’t any warmer. At least the space was empty.          

Trowa waited until a few sips of tea made the stone bearable enough to lean against, and then waited until Heero’s pointed stare threatened to burn holes into the polished granite floor.          

“We need to talk,” he reminded Heero.          

Heero’s eyes narrowed. Nodding to himself, he rubbed them before turning the penetrating stare on Trowa. Trowa locked his knees. He would have whatever accusation was waiting on Heero’s tongue without flinching. And after that? Well, then he might through tea in his face.          

Heero’s blue eyes flickered quickly over Trowa’s face, memorizing his expression. He breathed once before speaking. “Are you seeing someone?”          

Heero didn’t need to look for a crack or two in an otherwise expressionless face to know Trowa’s reaction. Trowa felt his mouth drop open. He had expected a few things, but not that.          

“What?”          

“Are you seeing someone,” Heero asked, resolve slightly shaken. He dropped his gaze, almost embarrassed. Or worse, ashamed.          

“Where is this coming from?”          

Heero ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve been differently recently. Distracted.” When Trowa frowned, Heero straightened and let his expression shift into the somewhat blank stare he got whenever he retrieved information. “You’ve taken more calls at work in the last few weeks than you have in six months. You’ve been texting.”          

“Once in a great while.”          

“You’re reluctant to come home.” Heero flinched at Trowa’s glare. “More reluctant than, than I expected. And even when you are home, you aren’t, you aren’t there. So, are you?”          

The faint downturn at the corners of Heero’s mouth, the disappointment in his question, infuriated Trowa. Trowa dropped his empty cup and crushed it against the stone with his foot.          

“I don’t see why I need to alert you to changes in my relationship status.”          

Heero scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”          

“When you decide to tell me about changes in your love life, I’ll tell you about changes in mine,” Trowa snapped.          

Heero had the decency to look confused and then horrified. “You heard us. On New Year’s.”          

Trowa hadn’t heard anything. He doubted he would have heard anything in the next room, let alone the second floor. He had been too preoccupied with the fingers in his ass and the low, heavy voice growling orders in his ear. Trowa turned away to hide the blush.          

“It’s not what you think,” Heero said.          

“And what is it that I think?”

Heero hesitated for a moment. “You know how he can get,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair before looking at Trowa with an expression that was at once sympathetic but entirely unapologetic. “It helps.”          

It was the most honest answer Heero could give him, and Trowa wanted to hurt him for it. He needed to because thinking about—not being told, not being asked—hurt. Did they think he would have said no? That Trowa would deny Quatre anything that made his crippling empathy a fraction lighter? Did they think he would willing leave that burden for them? Abandon them when Quatre swayed on the edge of empathic crash?

_I would._ He would have fretted and lied, feigned embarrassment. Maybe even disgust. He would have done anything to keep from being exposed. The weakness sickened him.           

But they hadn’t known then. They had no reason not to ask him. No reason except not wanting him.          

And that hurt.          

“Just,” Trowa started when he could open his mouth without screaming. “Just tell me it’s always been like this.”          

Heero blinked twice before his eyes widened. His brow furrowed at the thought of their arrangement starting after Trowa moved in. But his voice was carefully neutral when he spoke.          

“A couple months before you moved in,” he said quietly. Trowa’s throat tightened. He nodded and turned to watch a piece of litter skitter along the sidewalk.          

Trowa didn’t know why knowing hurt so much worse. It wasn’t like Heero had admitted to it being their resolution. That should have been worse. Much worse. But it wasn’t. Trowa chewed on his cheek. Beside him, Heero sighed.          

“So,” he said carefully. “Are you?”          

Trowa wanted to say no and enjoy Heero’s embarrassed flinch; he was that selfish and petty.

_No. I just don’t want him to believe me._ Because Heero would. A relationship was the perfectly explanation, moreso because Heero arrived at it himself first. If Trowa said yes, Heero would back off. No more lingering glances, no more cross-examinations, silent or otherwise. He would let Trowa do as he please, and Trowa would be able to breath a little better at home. And all Trowa had to do was give up the best excuse he had to stay even momentarily out of the collar Kader liked putting around his neck.            
Trowa sighed and nodded after a moment.          

Heero growled, loud enough and deep enough to bring Trowa’s head around to look at him. Heero’s face was tight, brow furrowed, blue eyes flat and dark, mouth set in an angry line. The expression lasted a few seconds. Then he blinked and nodded, the look gone.          

“A Preventer,” he asked, as if he hadn’t looked like he was plotting murder. Trowa folded his arms.          

“I don’t think that matters.”          

Heero nodded. “Not a Preventer then.”          

“Does it matter,” Trowa asked, the sharpness in his voice putting Heero on edge.          

“Sounds like it might,” he said. Trowa snorted.          

“And since when am I your kid?”          

Heero’s mouth twitched, caught between humor and discomfort. He shrugged after it smoothed out into a line. “Since never, but—”          

“I don’t need your permission or your approval.”

“It’s not about permission. It’s—”          

“I’m not a little girl who needs taking care of. I don’t need you watching my back.”          

Trowa had seen Heero hurt before. He had cared for Heero, nursed him, after the self-destruction so he had seen Heero at his physical worst. But he had never seen Heero in skin-whiting, muscle-tightening pain like this. Trowa shuddered at the ay Heero’s hands clenched and the muscles in his neck strained with swallowing.

Heero nodded and turned away. Trowa’s hands found their way into his pockets. He didn’t bother to think it was because of the cold.          

“Can I ask you something else,” Heero asked when he could look at Trowa with flat eyes again.          

“Sure,” he muttered.          

“Is it a guy?”          

This time, Trowa managed to keep his mouth shut, but only by clenching his teeth. Heero waited for him to unlock his jaw and run a hand through his hair.          

“Yeah.”          

Then Heero nodded curtly and headed out into the street.          

*-----*-----*

“You’re looking particularly furious,” Kader said, setting wine glass and folder down on the table. Trowa didn’t answer as he yanked his usual chair out. He sat down, grabbed the nearest piece of bread and bit into it. Kader raised his eyebrows and look at Nizar, who simply grunted and shrugged.        

“Trouble at work?”          

Work had been fine after that awkward conversation, aside from occasional narrowed glances, and then stares, and then curious looks, coming from one desk on the floor. Trowa even managed to stay until the appointed 7 P.M. meeting time with little more than a hug from Duo. Thanks to Heero.          

Trowa ripped the bread in half.          

Normal people—angry and vengeful from the blow Trowa had laid on them—would have tried to make it difficult. Normal people might have let the boyfriend’s existence slip in front of housemates and coworkers. But Heero wasn’t normal, which had to be why he leashed Duo in and let Trowa stay with little more than a patient reminder that Trowa needed to eat dinner.  _ The bastard. _ __

Heero believed him, just like Trowa feared he would. Trowa had expected him to leave Trowa to his own devices, though. Turn a blind on his new behavior. Not be a damn facilitator. Trowa couldn’t reject the help, either, not with raising his scrutiny again.            
 _Get used to match-maker Heero. I might even have to smile._ Trowa stabbed his fork into the bowl of broccoli.          

“Well,” Kader said, pushing away from the table. “I was going to wait but you look like you could use the pick-me-up.”                 

Trowa wondered what Kader meant, until he returned with a box wrapped in red and green paper. He blinked. The paper even had holly and sleigh bells on it.          

The incredulity must have shown because Kader smiled. “It’s customary to exchange gifts at Christmas, is it not,” he asked.          

“Christmas is over,” Trowa said, slow and weary.          

Kader’s smile darkened some. “I was under the impression that it was ‘the thought’ that counted, not the day.”          

Trowa took the box when Kader handed it to him, if only to keep Kader from punishing him for rudeness, and to keep his hands from the knife and fork just within reach. The box was surprisingly big and oddly heavy. Pushing back from the table, Trowa set it gently on his lap. He stared at the papered lid with curiosity and dread. He lifted it slowly.          

The sheet music was bright against the red tissue lining the interior of the box, and brighter still underneath the polished wooden flute case. Trowa fingered through the pages. Bach, Chopin, Mozart, Vivaldi. Compositions he already had mixed into ones he had been hoping to get, when he had more time to practice. His fingers drifted to the case. It was stained a warm, flawless honey. There were no unnecessary adornments, just fine brass hinges and clasp and a single, delicately carved etching on the lid: a deliberate, loving imperfection by the creator.          

It was something Trowa would have gladly gotten himself. It was sensible but sensitive, a gift that showed careful thought and intimate knowledge of the one who would get it. Trowa swallowed, trying to crush the heat rising in his face.          

Trowa put such care into his gifts, and he appreciated when others reciprocated it for him. Gifts had to match. There had to be that sense of rightness in the gift. It had to fit. It was why he had gotten Duo the etched butterfly knife, and Quatre a well tailored vest in a rare type of blue.          

The case fit him, and it shouldn’t. Kader shouldn’t care about things like that. The fact that he did fightentened Trowa.

Trowa muttered “thank you” low enough that Kader hopefully wouldn’t notice how high his voice was. He busined himself with the tissue paper so he wouldn’t have to look at the face that went with that amused chuckle. Trowa’s knuckles brushed against something hard. Frowning, he peeled back some of the paper. Trowa let out a startled noise before shoving the box away.          

Kader caught the box before it hit the floor. “Of course, I didn’t expect you to remember, you’ve been so busy,” he said. He smiled, all white teeth, as he pulled the vibrator from the box. “So I took the liberty of getting myself a little something from you.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> It's been over ten years since I started this fic. It was the summer of 2006, and I was a very different person. I was a broken, hurt person and it's only recently that I've really gotten to understand what I've been through.
> 
> A lot has happened in the last few years. I went to work abroad. I hit a low point in my depression and my eating disorder that I was in a very dangerous place. I discovered my sexuality. I was in an abusive relationship; it imploded and I nearly killed myself. 
> 
> I recovered. I met the love of my life. We came out to our parents. We moved in together when I moved south for my graduate degree. We just got married. I got my Masters degree in English. My mother was diagnosed with cancer, and after four years, it's finally terminal. She still got to see me and my wife walk down the aisle.
> 
> I started going to therapy. I started medications and active work on my eating disorder. After suffering from mental illness for 15 years, I'm starting to really work on being a happier, healthier me.
> 
> I'm thirty, but it's better late than never.
> 
> The Chains We Wear, now Chains, was the way I worked through a lot of my issues when I didn't know what I needed or who I could talk to. It's been how I worked through dysphoria, despair, desire, and depression. It's been how I've tried to understand the anger and fear and loathing. This story has been my life line.
> 
> At my lowest points, which were the last few years, I couldn't look at it. Now though, I can. 
> 
> It's been over ten years, and a rewrite is long overdue. I love this story, and I'm going to finish it, but to do so I needed to get back to the basics of it. Which meant a complete, word-by-word rewrite. A total overhaul.
> 
> The Chains We Wear is not going anywhere. I keep copies of all my drafts (you can actually find the oldest version on Adultfanfiction.net), so this will stay here for those of you who have read it and loved it and held it as dear to your hearts as I do to mine. But I'm proud to show you an updated version, a refined version. 
> 
> I appreciate everyone who has stayed with me on this literature-journey. I appreciate every hit, every kudos, and every comment. I haven't always been the best at responding, but every person who touches this fic and finds something to like about it means so much to mean. As a writer and as a person.
> 
> Thank you for joining me on this journey. I hope you enjoy the new, long overdue edit simply called: Chains


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